stillbloodysingle

Smart, sexy single desperately seeking similar…

Here I go again, on my own

Ah, speed dating. What a quirky evening it was. And, perhaps surprisingly, a lot of fun.

Let loose on the unsuspecting world on a rare night out I was, perhaps, a tad … ebullient. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was like an over-enthusiastic puppy dog straining at the leash, but it’s been quite a while since I’ve been out beyond 7pm, let alone had the pleasure of meeting so many new people all at once.

And what an eclectic bunch it was…

There was number seven, the Ukrainian physicist, who spoke with an accent as thick as treacle but unfortunately left no impression on me beyond that. I met rough diamond number five, who bought a garden furniture business almost by accident and had a surprising penchant for writing and literature.

Number nine was a keen bean who came to mingle before the event started, and wasted no time in telling me how he spent all his spare time and cash on formula car racing. (He seemed almost proud that his company had registered just £4K profit last year, since he’d frittered the rest on his one true passion.) He also talked about mortgages far more than I’d consider standard at a speed dating event.

I discovered that number 12 had five – yes, five – children: he was a single parent to two girls and saw one of his sons regularly, but the other two were not in his life. In fact, one of them was as a result of a one-night stand and he only found out the child existed when the mother popped round to show it off.

It’s surprising what you can find out in four minutes.

Thank goodness for number eight – a friendly American squaddy who, at the ripe old age of 38, was due to retire in two years’ time – and number 10, who’d caught my eye the minute he walked in: he worked in forest management and apparently regularly had a freezer full of deer – just one of the perks of the job.

I wasn’t sure that either of them were boyfriend material but they both seemed like nice, interesting guys, so I skipped the ‘yes’ and ‘no’ columns on my crib sheet, and put a decisive tick for each of them under ‘friend’.

After them, there were a couple of friendly gentlemen who fell straight into the ‘no’ category, then all too soon, the night was over. Everyone was unusually swift to skedaddle thereafter, so I was back on the bike and on my way home by 10pm.

Of course, it wasn’t long before I had a message from the Phantom Texter, asking how the evening had gone – and I couldn’t help asking myself what his interest in that might be.

Although many texts have been exchanged in the last week or so, I’m no closer to understanding his intentions … or his marital status … and it seems a bit blunt to just up and ask him, apropos of nothing. However, I’ve been in this situation before and sooner or later, truth will out. I’d just prefer it to be sooner, rather than later.

Anyway, while I’m waiting for things to make themselves clear, there seems no harm in going for a friendly coffee with The Forester. He’s an attractive gentleman, after all – if a little quieter than I’d like.

(So many people have been at pains to point out my … umm … irrepressible nature lately, that I’m scared I’m going to smother anyone who doesn’t bound into the room in an eye-screeching outfit, waving their arms about and rah-rah-rah-ing.)

Anyhow, the coffee was a very low-key affair, very pleasant … but as always in these cases, I can’t say I noticed much of a spark. I mean, I had a very pleasant time and it would be nice to meet up again but … I can’t say I’d be gutted if we didn’t. Still, most of the significant relationships in my life have not begun with an immediate attraction, so I’m happy to play it cool and see what develops. Maybe he’s a grower.

But recently I’ve been wondering if I even want to find a man at all. When I think of the impact an interloper would have on our lives (and when I say ‘our’ lives, I mean me and the little guy), I get to thinking that maybe the game’s not worth the candle.

So many of our rhythms and routines would have to change – in fact, the whole dynamic of my relationship with the little guy would have to change – that I wonder if it’s even worth trying to embark on such an ambitious scheme.

Maybe I’m just being defeatist. Or maybe I’m already halfway to an old age surrounded by cats. Or maybe, just maybe, single isn’t such a bad state after all.

Leave a comment »

And the seasons, they go round and round…

And so the interminable rain of summer has given way to crisp, bright, quasi-autumnal days.

(I know. This is England. It does weird things like that.)

It’s been a busy summer: the little guy and I holidayed with a dear friend in Riga (Latvia has now become his default destination whenever I query where he’s beetling off to), visited the abuelos in Spain – a trip that went much better than I could have predicted – and had countless jaunts to the seaside, the countryside and a host of assorted festivals.

In fact, just last week we were at a Scarecrow Festival – the highlights of which included the little fella ringing a church bell and posing next to a scarecrow version of Freddie Mercury … a sight that had to be seen to be believed.

The piglet is, of course, growing like a weed. He’s pretty much out of nappies, in the daytime at least, and prone to startling me with sentences like, “Mummy, it’s quite hot in here. Could you open the window so I can have a bit of cool air?”

He’s two. I mean, not even two-and-a-half. Can you imagine what he’s going to be like as a teenager?

Anyway, for the moment he’s delicious and delightful and funny and surprising, and getting more so every day.

And what of romance? Well, very little. Surprise, surprise.

My mingling with the opposite sex is sorely limited by my inability to leave the house. Or, to put it another way, unless I happen to meet Prince Charming at the supermarket checkout, I’m scuppered.

Since I’m officially done with dating sites, I’ve signed up for a speed dating soirée, to try and force my hand: I’m hoping that seeing the whites of their eyes will induce me to look more favourably on the catalogue of candidates up for selection.

I’m steadfastly refusing to look at any of the participants’ profiles ahead of the event, though. I know myself too well: I’ll have talked myself out of every single one of them before I even get through the door.

Yep, things have been quiet on the western front, to say the least. The only hint of romance – the merest twinge – has come from a most unexpected quarter. In fact, it’s such an unexpected quarter that I’m keeping it verrrrry close to my chest.

But … you know when someone seeks you out and repeatedly texts you and there’s nothing particularly untoward in the content of those texts … except that the person had no real reason to be texting you in the first place? Well that’s how it is.

In fact, when someone asks you if you consider it “inappropriate” that they’re texting you, well … that almost suggests that they do … doesn’t it?

Maybe I’m reading far too much into it, and maybe he just wants to be friends – do men ever do that? I’ve got no idea anymore – and discuss life, the universe and everything, but … my famously ineffectual instinct suspects a more amorous intention.

Anyway, the Phantom Texter is an attractive gentleman, and eligible in many ways but, unless I’m very much mistaken, as married as married can be. And, as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not in the business of stealing other ladies’ men.

Eligible gentlemen may be in extremely short supply, but when I find one, I want him all to myself. Surely that’s not too much for a girl to ask … is it?

Leave a comment »