You know that book, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus?

No, me neither.

Well, what I mean is that I’ve not read it, so I have no idea of its validity as an intelligent document on the fundamental differences between the genders. But what I do know is that the basic concept isn’t far wrong: when it comes to relationships, at least, men and women are playing by entirely different rules.

Take the situation with Uni Boy, for example. I struggle to understand the circular nature of our non-relationship: we get together and have a great time. Then, the minute we start getting comfortable, he decides we shouldn’t see each other anymore. We abstain. He gets in touch. We get together. And round we go again.

I mean, I’m not looking for Happy Ever After here. But I am looking for a bit of consistency.

I mentioned this to a girlfriend over coffee. She smiles at me coquettishly.

“Are you sure he’s not just afraid?”

Of what? Of me?

“No,” she says, smiling coyly. “Maybe he’s afraid of falling in love with you.”

To be honest, even to my ears this sounds a bit fanciful.

Whilst we ladies like to put a rosy tint on our dabbling with persons of the male persuasion, on the whole we know that their emotional processes can be almost brutally utilitarian. What’s more, we also know that it’s nothing personal: that’s just the way the way it is.

Of course there are notable exceptions, but as one of my male friends once said (and I hope he won’t mind me quoting him on it),

“The questions women ask of men are often highly complex but the answers are usually very simple: ‘No, he doesn’t want a relationship, he just wants to have no-strings sex with you’ would work in most cases.”

Hmmm. Almost scarily simple, no?

Ladies, you know all the times you have coffee with a girlfriend and debate the possible motives for the seemingly senseless actions of your latest squeeze? Try the ‘No, he doesn’t want a relationship, he just wants to have no-strings sex with you’ test.

If there’s even the slightest hint that it could apply to your situation, then it probably does: he’s not scared of falling in love; he’s not been hurt too many times before; he’s just on the prowl.

So while my girlfriend envisages some complex mélange of tortured emotion swirling in the heart and head of Uni Boy, I’m not particularly surprised when I meet up with a pragmatic male friend who echoes the more sober perception of my (un)romantic tanglings with Uni Boy…

“It’s simple: he’s using you for fun when it suits him.”

Or, in other words, no, he doesn’t want a relationship, he just wants to have no-strings sex with you.

I can almost hear the fat little cupid conjured by my friend’s imagination falling from his perch on a nearby cloud and crashing unceremoniously to the floor.

“Men like to hunt,” continues the pragmatic male friend. “We respect women by the amount of effort we have to put into the hunt. No effort; no respect.”

“Why don’t you make it harder for him? Turn the tap off for a bit?”

While I can’t argue with the veracity of his assessment, I can’t help but find it a bit disheartening.
Because if I enjoy hanging out with someone, I can’t help telling them; I’m not good at throwing up walls of faux-mystique and playing hard to get. It just makes me feel faintly ridiculous.

And besides, Uni Boy is never going to be the love of my life. I’m not trying to trick him into a relationship, I just enjoy his company and I want to have some fun. But I want it to be consistent fun, and I want it to be at least partly on my terms.

Still, seeing the situation from male and female perspectives has been decidedly educational. It’s reaffirmed my idea that men and women have almost no idea of what goes on in each other’s heads.

Which in itself makes me wonder: if and when you do meet a guy who wants a bit more than a no-strings fling … how on earth would you know?

I feel terrible.

Actually, to be more accurate, I’m feeling tragically sorry for myself. And it’s all because of Uni Boy.

Normally, I’m pretty good at pulling myself out of the black hole of despair, but today I’m in full-on Eeyore mode. I just can’t stop sniffling. My eyes are pink and big, fat tears roll sporadically down my cheeks and onto my lap. Yep, it’s that bad.

We’ve spent the afternoon messaging each other. He’s still telling me how gorgeous and wonderful I am … he just doesn’t want to see me anymore.

Yes, I know that it was only ever going to be a fling, but somehow it didn’t feel too bad when the end was predestined by circumstance. But now that I’ve been officially dumped – AGAIN – I just feel awful and unlovable and … thoroughly sorry for myself.

Actually, it’s unfair to say that I’m feeling sorry for myself because of Uni Boy. I’m clearly feeling sorry for myself because of ME. The top and bottom of it is that I just don’t like being dumped; the identity of the perpetrator is almost immaterial.

I can’t help wondering why no-one ever wants me. What’s wrong with me?! I know a it’s ridiculously negative way of thinking and I should squash the thoughts at source, but my life is littered with men telling me how charming and attractive I am, and what a great friend I make … it’s just that none of them, for whatever reason, actually wants to be with me.

Despite Uni Boy’s many flaws (not wanting me being the most prominent), being with him really did make me happy: his hugs had a way of banishing negative thoughts and his kisses took me where little angels play sweet melodies on tiny golden harps. Still, we have the same stupid sense of humour and I’m sure he’ll make a very good friend, once I’ve got over the mortification.

And this is the main point: I’m sick of being The Friend.

I’ve remained friends with almost all of my exes, except The Only I Almost Married, and we were never friends before. I’m everybody’s bloody friend … but still I’ve got no-one to call my own; no-one to curl up to on cold nights and no-one to give me a squeeze just because they feel like it.

The worst of it is that I’m one of the world’s most affectionate creatures. I like nothing more than human contact in any of its forms: when I’m sad, just stroke my hair and I’m soothed; when I’m happy I’ll celebrate with kisses and hugs; when it’s cold, full-body spooning is just what I need; and when it’s too hot for contact, I’ll link little fingers and be happy.

Which is why it feels so unfair that I’m always alone: no hugs, no kisses, no spoons. Nothing. And with every failed fling I see a life of solitude laid out ever more clearly before me.

Enough!

I need to get out of this way of thinking; I need a change of air. So it’s pure fortune that tonight I’ll be boarding a plane for Istanbul, a trip booked when I was still reeling from the news that my ex was to be a daddy. Booked, in fact, on the fateful day that I got it together with Uni Boy.

And I know I should count my blessings: I’ve got no ties, nothing to stop me zipping off to foreign climes whenever I feel like it. And let’s face it, who can remain glum when they’re off to see the Blue Mosque and eat köfte while watching the sun set over the Bosphorus?

I think about it for a moment. I’m healthy, I’m happy(ish) and the unexpectedly independent configuration of my life lets me do whatever I want. What is there to complain about? I pull out a guidebook and start reading about the highlights of Istanbul.

Ladies and gentlemen, Eeyore has left the building.

It’s a beautiful sunny day (if you ignore the wind and the clouds) and I’m meeting some friends in the park. It’s the closest we’ve had to barbeque weather for a while and we’re determined to make the most of it.

I’m in a buoyant mood as I cycle along and, once I’ve locked my bike up, I decide to send a quick text to Uni Boy.

“Hey you!” I write. “How’s things?”

Surprisingly, I get an almost instant response.

“Interesting!” he replies. “Boss has quit. Looks like I’m in for a promotion!”

Wow. This is an interesting development. He’d had a sneaking suspicion that his boss was about to resign, and that he might be asked to replace him. Not only would it mean a big step up the ladder, it would also mean he’d be staying in the UK as head of about a gazillion offices.

“Wow!” I write, “Congratulations! You must be celebrating. Does that mean the move is off?”

“Yup,” he replies. “The world can wait. The UK needs me 🙂 What are you up to today?”

“Finally some sunshine,” I write, “BBQ in the park today. Missing you!”

“Sunshine?” comes the reply. “Wow! Missing you too … though maybe we should quit while we’re ahead. Don’t want to get used to this.”

I stare at the screen. Somewhere in the back of my mind an alarm bell starts ringing. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions, but…

“Hang on a minute,” I write. “Does that mean you’re dumping me?”

Again, a near instant response.

“Gorgeous girl,” he says, “I would never dump you. But maybe it’s time to move on to pastures new.”

Bloody hell! He is dumping me! He’s staying in the UK and now he’s dumping me. I feel as though I’m in a lift on the 13th floor and the cable just broke.

“So you are dumping me …” I write.

“Gorgeous, funny, clever, sexy lady,” he replies, “I honestly think you’re the best. If I were five years older, I’d ask you to marry me. But I’m young and stupid … and it had to end sooner or later, didn’t it?”

Now I’ll be the first to admit that I was never likely to become Mrs Uni Boy, but I thought we’d been having fun. Lots of fun. Enough fun to keep on having fun for a little while longer.

From the first evening that we got together, I’d felt comfortable in his company. There was no initial awkwardness, no uncomfortable silences … we were like hand and glove right from the start. Sure, he’s a few years younger than me – he wasn’t in my year at uni, nor even the year below – but since I wasn’t looking to him for marriage and babies, I didn’t think it mattered.

I’m about to reason with him, telling him why he’s wrong and why there’s so much more fun to be had, when I suddenly realise it’s pointless. His mind is made up. Discussing it won’t help. So for once in my life, I do the smart thing: I give up, and shut up.

“OK,” I write, with superhuman restraint. “Sorry to hear that. It’s been fun. I’ll miss you. Best of luck with the new job xx”

Everything’s always alright.

But I’m beginning to make a habit of getting dumped. And for being too old, as well. Does this mean I’m not even good enough to be a fling now? Depressing.

Although my heart’s not really in it, I join my friends for the barbeque. And of course, after a while, everything really is alright – or at least, swept under the carpet to be dealt with another day.

Later, at home, I’m contemplating the day’s events and feeling just a little bit glum. I really will miss Uni Boy; I liked his cuddles and his upbeat take on life. Just as my mood is turning morose, a message pings onto my computer screen.

“Hey, sexy! What’s cooking?”

It’s the Peruvian Puma. I can’t help but smile.

“Ready for another of my famous dances? ;)” he writes.

You know what? I really think that I am. Could there be a better way to bring a smile to a sad lady’s face? Laughing to myself, I type my response.

“Hit me with it, wild thing!”

And you know what? He does.

OK, so with Uni Boy about to disappear from the scene, I’ve decided I need to get proactive and find myself a new partner in crime, before I get an attack of affection withdrawal.

I just can’t bring myself to go back to the dating site, so I reluctantly conclude that speed dating might be a better bet: you can go with a girlfriend; there’s no excruciating preamble; you get to check people out first-hand, right from the off; and if you don’t like the look of them, you need never hear from them again. So far, so good.

Although I’m unsure how much you can tell about a person in three minutes and 45 seconds, I convince myself that it’s a good idea, so I get online and check out my options. Not many, it would seem. There’s just one local organiser of speed dating events, and their soirées cost £20 a pop.

Of course, if you meet the love of your life, twenty quid is a mere trifle. But if, as I suspect is more likely, you’re paying to spend the evening in the company of a herd of socially awkward gents with a penchant for Dungeons and Dragons, it’s less of a bargain.

Now, I know I shouldn’t judge, especially as I’m One of Them. (The hopelessly single, I mean. Not the lovers of Dungeons and Dragons.) But the last dating event that I attended didn’t fill me with hope. I have memories of some thoroughly awkward conversations. Some folks looked jumpy when faced with questions that probed delicate topics such as … ooh, the vague geographical location of their home, or what they did for a living.

I know that people are just nervous. I know, I know. But … hey, we’re all adults; we’re all here for the same reason. Surely the least we can do is make it easy on each other by putting our friendliest face forward? Anyway, I need to get a grip. My reluctance is causing me to foresee disaster and I haven’t even booked my place yet. To arrest my waning enthusiasm, I quickly turn back to the screen.

It’s not as simple as just picking a date and showing up, however. Oh no. Choosing my location is easy, but then I find I can choose between graduate professionals, and … um … the rest of the populace. I suppose this division is because we’re in a University town, but why does mingling with graduate professionals attract a £2 surcharge? Presumably it’s because I’ll be meeting a higher calibre of human being. Or perhaps it’s because graduates demand a higher class of biscuit at half-time. Who knows?

Anyway, next I have to choose my preferred age range. And here’s where it gets more taxing, not least because – like the Queen – I have two ages: my official age, and my real age. Which to choose? (Answer: never you mind.)

I find that there are several different groupings of age and status but, oddly, nothing for my demographic – that is, female graduate professionals over the age of 33. Is the assumption that as a female aged 33+, I should be grateful for whomsoever I can find, graduate or no? Or, more charitably, that beyond the golden age of 33 I’ll have mellowed to the point where educational status is no longer important?

Flummoxed by the lack of appropriate options I hesitate, mouse hovering indecisively. After several moments of umm-ing and aah-ing, I finally make up my mind with a decisive click.

Immediately, a box pops up on my screen.

“Sorry!” it says. “That option is no longer available.”

Gah! Is that “no longer available”, as in fully booked, or “no longer available” as in permanently off the menu? I’m sure if I were more into the idea, I’d find a way to surmount the problem and book my place. But as it is, I decide to take it as an omen: speed dating isn’t for me. I’m such a chicken, I know.

Just as I’m pondering my lack of grit and determination, an email arrives. It’s from The Darkly Intriguing… and he’s as succinct as ever.

“Dinner post-gym tomorrow?”

Wow. He’s never requested my company after 5pm before. So it’d be rude to refuse … right? With Uni Boy about to abandon me forever, I’ve got to take the chances as they arise. I know he’s not worthy of my attentions. I know he isn’t. But then show me someone who is. Go on.

So, with an inevitability that surprises no-one (least of all me), I type a nonchalant reply – “Sure.” – and accept the invitation. Dinner post-gym it is.

So, after a wet, grey but mostly entertaining bank holiday spent partially in the company of Uni Boy, my worst fears have been confirmed: I am indeed missing out by having no-one to kiss and cuddle.

Over the long weekend, I’ve really appreciated having someone to snuggle up to, share things with and – yes – even cook things for.

Who knew I was a Desperate Housewife manquée?

To be honest, Uni Boy and I are quite different people and we know it, but since neither of us is taking the situation too seriously we can, on the whole, overlook things that might otherwise cause friction: I ignore his Jurassic reply times to my texts, and he turns a blind eye to my early morning freneticism.

(Yes, I know I have plenty of time, it’s just that fifth gear is my default setting, alright?)

We have a lot of fun in each other’s company, mostly because he’s as daft as I am. There are not many people who can snap awake at 7.45am on their day off, and be laughing by 7.46. Luckily, both Uni Boy and I can. And do.

Obviously, the fact that he’ll soon be leaving these shores means that all these lovely treats will soon be coming to an end. But I can’t complain too much – I feel lucky to have had a few weeks of fun and affection.

Naturally, I’d be happy with a few more, but my batteries have been recharged and I feel loveable again – which is a very positive development. Sure, I’m no closer to meeting Mr Right, but at least I’m back to thinking that this is due to a twist of fate, rather than some crushing defect on my part.

The only perplexing thing about the whole situation is that Uni Boy seems preternaturally worried that I’m about to fall head over heels in love with him.

I’m not completely sure, but I think his concern stems from my delight when he paid me a surprise visit at work. Of course, I was pleased to see him – especially as I was struggling with a rather difficult report and his arrival presented me with the perfect excuse to abandon it for a while.

But really, who doesn’t like surprises like that? And anyway, if someone’s gone to the trouble of surprising you, the very least you can do is look pleased about it. But if I’d known it was going to worry him so much, I’d have grunted my thanks and snatched my coffee grouchily from his hand.

I admit that I may not have helped matters by getting upset one day when his excessive need for ‘privacy’ in all things relationship-related meant that he barely acknowledged me in a group of friends. But I’d have been equally upset if any friend had done the same.

No, whilst I appreciate the fact that he’s kind enough to consider my feelings (even if there is a certain level of self-interest), I’m not really under any illusions. I know he’s not the love of my life; nor am I his. I know he’s going to leave, and I also know that he won’t look back. And that’s fine. It honestly is.

Anyway, amid all the fun and frolics with Uni Boy, I must admit that The Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym has been somewhat eclipsed. But this morning, he’s back.

“Coffee?” says the message in my inbox.

Although the lack of movement in his relationship status tells me all I need to know about his merit as a potential partner, in the interests of variety (OK, and of giving Uni Boy a poke in the eye) I type a quick response in the affirmative and head out of the door.

I’m messaging a friend on Facebook, when an update catches my eye: “Giuseppe Conti” – let’s call him Giuseppe Conti – “is married to Laura Nemkova.”

I stare at the screen in disbelief: I last saw Giuseppe about two years ago, and he didn’t even have a girlfriend then. And here he is, married to a beautiful young lady.

Of course I’m very happy for dear Giuseppe … but try as I might, I just can’t stop the whiny little voice inside me that says, “Why not me?”

Now, even I have to admit that it’s a very stupid little voice. It’s not as if I even really care about getting hitched. In fact, although I had a brief moment of Bridezilla fever with The One I Almost Married, I was generally in favour of sloping off somewhere to a secret ceremony for two. The very thought of standing there like a meringue in some histrionic confection of a wedding dress made me break out in laughter, or hives, depending on the day.

No, I know myself better than that, and what I’m really lamenting is that there’s no one who cares enough about me to want to be with me.

Even thinking about it makes my throat a bit tight and the back of my eyes all itchy. Because I look at my coupled-up friends – and, believe me, there are many – and I wonder to myself if I’m really more unlovable than all of them put together.

Of course, all these kind-hearted couples assure me that I’ll find someone eventually. But the second anniversary of my singleton status has just passed, and I can’t help wondering exactly when ‘eventually’ might be: this week? This month? This year? This lifetime? I’m bored of being alone, and I can’t wait for ‘eventually’ to make its sweet mind up to arrive.

The latest trend is to tell me that it’ll happen when I stop looking. Well, excuse me for being blunt, but that’s just a load of hogwash. In which other circumstance would you tell someone that inactivity is the best way to achieve their goal?

“I really want to lose weight.”

Don’t worry! It’ll happen when you stop thinking about it.

“I want to run a marathon.”

No problem! It’ll happen when you stop thinking about it.

Hogwash. Utter, utter hogwash.

No, in all other circumstances you’d formulate a strategy – some kind of action plan to get you where you want to be, breaking the bigger task into small, achievable steps that take you ever closer to the bigger goal.

In another moment, I’d approach the project with enthusiasm and zeal. But today’s just not the day: I’m sick to the back teeth of even thinking about being single.

Maybe it’s the grey skies, maybe it’s the incessant rain that’s plagued us for weeks, but today I don’t feel proactive and dynamic. I feel sulky, recalcitrant and utterly hacked off with fate, Cupid, whoever. I’ve got the hump so badly I can’t even concentrate on my work. It’s definitely time for a coffee.

I’m just slipping my coat on when I hear a ‘ping!’ from my mobile. It’s a message from the Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym.

Succinct as ever, the message contains just one word: “Coffee?”

And I know I shouldn’t, but I quickly type “Yes”, and head out of the door.