stillbloodysingle

Smart, sexy single desperately seeking similar…

I’m looking over a four-leaf clover

Not that long ago, there was a Very Important Anniversary that I may have neglected to mention. A very special day that was celebrated with cake and treats and a day out at the miniature railway.

Yes, as incredible as it may seem, the little guy is now four. FOUR! Can you believe it?

Who would have thought, when I brought that wrinkled little being home from the hospital (and then back to the hospital, and then home again) that one day, he would be FOUR?

I mean, I know most infants start off small and get bigger – I’m smart like that – but really … four kinda took me by surprise.
Because four means big boy: lanky limbs where chubby little arms and legs once were, and a burgeoning eloquence offset by grammatical eccentricity and unfathomable logic. (Sample quote: “Mummy, can you imagine if a tiny queen comed while we were sleeping and magicked avocados all over the world and they were rolling everywhere??”)

Anyway, four also means that the boy will be off to school in September, so our days have been full of form-filling and teacher visits and the ordering of special sweatshirts with the school badge on the front.

Of course, while I’m feeling slightly sentimental about it all, the little guy is charging towards it like an enthusiastic rhinoceros … which is, I suppose, the best way for things to be.

But between school and my new job (did I mention I had a new job?), our days as a Travelling Twosome are numbered. Now that we’re limited to school holidays instead of, well … any old time … and I’m working five days instead of four, our globe-trotting escapades will have to be reined in.

Which is why we’ve just squeezed in a highly relaxing week in Timișoara, an absolute gem of a city that’s full of beautiful architecture; green, leafy parks; and plenty of Italian ice cream shops.

Aside from the little guy stepping on a bee, necessitating rather more carrying than I’d hoped for, Romania’s finest really did deliver on fun, sun and … well, not sand, but let’s say … mellow vibes.

And the mellowness even extended to the Romanian menfolk: this was the first holiday in moons where I was not accosted by buoyant balloon sellers, Freddie Mercury fanatics or anonymous Russian admirers. It’s no wonder I’m keen to go back.

Still, if the truth be told, I’m being pretty much universally ignored by the male half of the species, full stop. Clearly, I’m not known for my raging success on that front, but things have been quieter than ever – though for once, I’ve probably noticed less.

Because although I’m still as single as can be, I’m in a pretty good place right now: we have a comfortable home, I’m in a decent job, we have good friends and the little guy is healthy and happy. And I’m pretty grateful for all of that.

Looking back over the last four years, I can see that things haven’t always been so easy: we’ve moved house five times; tightened our metaphorical belts on several occasions … and I’ve endured LOTS of days without speaking to another human being.

But here we are, my little man and I, carefree and content. And if we’re counting our blessings, we might just run out of fingers.

We’re lucky to be where we are, and I’m lucky to have my quirky little guy, rolling avocados and all.

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Going back to my roots

It’s a beautiful afternoon. The sun is beating down, the sea breeze is raking my hair … and I’m heaving a snotty, wailing three-year-old past the hawkers and traders ranged along the seafront.

The infant is flopping about like a freshly caught mackerel and getting heavier by the second, when an elderly gentleman with a kind face and badly broken teeth waves a yellow balloon in our direction.

We’re in Budva, a small but attractive medieval town on Montenegro’s Adriatic coast. A town which just happens to have its very own Blackpool-style promenade, where said gentleman is obviously big in the balloon trade.

“Oh, no thank you,” I say, as I hurry past, wondering how on earth he could think this was the perfect balloon-buying moment.

To my surprise, Balloon Man breaks into a trot alongside me, cooing to the boy and insistently waving the balloon, saying, “It’s free! No money. Here … good boy. Stop cry. Take balloon.”

I slow my pace, wondering how to proceed: it’s very kind of him to offer the balloon – and churlish of me if I refuse – but really I don’t want to reward my son for throwing the mother of all tantrums.

I hesitate, but it turns out that my vacillations are redundant, since before I can say a thing, Balloon Man is beaming and the boy is clutching the balloon in a grubby paw.

We thank Balloon Man and continue on our way; the wails subside to snotty hiccups and, once the little human has completely calmed himself, I insist that he returns to say thank you for his gift. And herein my mistake…

Balloon Man waves away our thank yous and tells me that his son lives in America; he has a grandchild the same age as the little guy whom he rarely sees as he’s afraid of flying. So far, so platonic.

But then Balloon Man asks me the whereabouts of my husband, and I explain that I don’t have one – which is clearly a concept beyond his ken, because he begins to berate the errant husband who has wantonly abandoned me and my son … before asking where we’re staying and suggesting that perhaps he could come and see us some time.

Luckily, I’m able to say that we’re just visiting Budva for the day; we’re actually staying in Kotor.

“I drive to Kotor,” he says, optimistically. “I look for you when you come back for bus!”

And he does.

He spies us en route to the bus station and comes to the playground where the little guy is playing, hovering hopefully while I studiously ignore him. When it’s time to pass his stall again, the little guy conveniently bolts, and I have to run and grab him before he finds himself under a car. Balloon Man watches wistfully from afar.

The next day, Nanna, the boy and I are on a boat trip around the bay of Kotor. The infant has been adopted by a Kosovan family, and is being petted by their kids when the captain’s mate – a rangy young gentleman and a recent graduate in economics – takes me by the hand and invites me to the bow of the boat.

We sit with the wind in our faces, soaking up the sunshine and chatting. (Another tourist asks if he can go up front too, to take photographs, but is tersely rebuffed by the captain.) He asks where we’re staying, and wonders whether we might meet up for a drink one evening.

And it’s then I have a flash of realisation: my niche!

As a woman with a child, I’ve been ignored by men for so long that I’d almost forgotten about my ‘under 25, over 55’ niche – and my apparent inability to attract any man outside those parameters. But here it was again, alive and well and living in Montenegro.

For a while there, it looked as though the Great Date may have derailed my ill fortune, but the second date was … nice … and then he disappeared on a six-week academic tour. And, if I’m honest, I forgot all about him.

After that, life has been so busy with one thing and another, I’ve barely had time to consider my single status. Still, when all’s said and done, I suppose there’s some sort of reassurance in knowing that times may change, men may come and go … but no matter what, I’ll always have my niche.

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Happy birth… oh, never mind

Guess what? It’s my birthday again. And this year I’m overwhelmed by a feeling of … indifference.

In years gone by, my day of birth was a cause for excitement and celebration – or at least a couple of good nights out with my mates.

In more recent times, it’s been an uncomfortable reminder of the passing years, and the ever-diminishing possibility of becoming a mum again.

But this year … this year I just feel largely … disinterested.

If truth be told, I’m more excited that I’m having a night out. It’s been nearly THREE MONTHS since I had a night out on the town with my mates – or what’s left of them.

(I did manage to sneak in one or two cocktails with a dear old friend when I went to visit my mum, mind. And thank goodness I did, or my sanity would have been completely out of the window by now.)

I know I bark on about it all the time, but the single hardest thing about being a lone parent is the isolation: you’re either in full-on mummy mode or sitting by yourself on the sofa, whiling away the hours until bedtime.
So the opportunity to leave the house AND hang out with grown-ups seems like a miracle of bounteous good fortune.

Truly, I am blessed.

The weird thing is, I’ve kind of forgotten how to snazz myself up for a night out. As I realised when I was trying to envisage some kind of outfit that would be suitable for a celebratory soirée, my work wardrobe is far more daring and sexy than my civvies. Scary, right?

Obviously, I’ll be going with mates who won’t care if I turn up in a bin bag, but since this is a rare opportunity to get my gladrags on, it’d be nice if my imagination could stretch to something more than jeans and a Primark tshirt. But I seem to have become the antithesis of glamour.

For example, a friend recently bought me a voucher for a photo shoot, complete with makeover. Now, I admit that I’ve never been much of a glamour puss – para boots and dreadlocks were more the order of the day for me – but I think this experience underlined how very little primping and preening happens on my watch.

Although I’d stated my preference for minimal make-up right from the start, the young lady still trowelled on what I considered obscene amount of gunk and goo … resulting in a less-than-ecstatic response from yours truly.

In fact, I looked so continually horrified at every stage of the makeover that the young lady eventually threw her hands in the air and, with good-natured exasperation, capitulated to my desire for, “less eyeshadow, please”, “not that much blusher!” and, “my own lipstick might be a bit less … red”.

I think the defining moment was when her query about whether I did my own eyebrows was met with a blank stare. Do…? Eyebrows…? She knew then that she was dealing with a rank amateur.

(The photos turned out great, by the way. And I looked like myself. Or rather, a very smooth version of myself.)
Anyway, this all goes to show that maybe I should up my game. Women of my age surely need all the help we can get with our je ne sais quoi … not to mention our dwindling appeal for the opposite sex. (Ha! As if any of them are looking.)

So tonight I’m going to push the boat out: I’ve already painted my nails (whoo!) and I may even apply some foundation. (Steady on…)

So if you spot a gussied up dame, caked in panstick and swanning about like Zsa Zsa Gabor with a cocktail in her hand, that’ll be me. Pop over and buy me another, why don’t you?

Cheers!

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From Russia with love

So here we are in Lithuania – me, the little guy and Nanna, on a three-generational holiday. And in the great tradition of our three-generational holidays, we’re staying in a hostel.

We’ve spent the morning traipsing round Vilnius’s finest kid-friendly attractions, so we’re taking a well-earned rest in the common room with a beer, a glass of milk and a cup of tea, respectively.

The little guy is – naturally – showing off his finest Spiderman moves, attracting the attention of our fellow hostellers, so we take time to say hello and introduce ourselves. We meet a young girl from Oregon, USA, who’s worked as a nanny and has clearly got the measure of my overly bouncy infant; a young guy from Korea who’s just graduated and is taking time out to travel round Europe; and an older guy who tells us that he’s from a place on the Russian border with China, and his town is half Russian and half Chinese.

“Interesting,” I say. “I’d never really thought of the two populations living side by side…”

But I don’t get to ponder this further, because the Korean guy starts talking about his plans to go to Warsaw and it turns out that’s where the American girl is headed, too, so they start talking about that, the conversation ends and the little guy and I head off to hang out on the beanbags with Nanna.

Cut to three days later.

I’ve just realised that I’ve miscounted the nappies and we’re two short, so I’m on a late-night mercy mission to the local supermarket. (I’ve become a bit casual since the little guys switched to teeny tiny pants during the day; I somehow forget that he still needs them at night.)

While I’m perusing the aisles in search of Baltic bum wraps, Nanna is putting the little guy to bed in our four-bed dorm – which, since there are three of us, has effectively become a private room. She’s just changed into her nightie and is about to read the first of three bedtime stories.

Suddenly, without as much as a cursory knock on the door, Russian Guy bursts into the room, burbling about how he’s leaving this evening and asking, “Where is your daughter?”

My mum – quite politely, given the rather startling circumstances – explains that I’m out and will surely be back soon.

Exit Russian Guy.

Ten minutes later, Nanna is just snuggling down under the covers when Russian Guy bounds in again, explaining that he’s leaving now and he’d like to leave his contact details for me.

My poor mum, from her supine position, is forced to extend a hand to receive the scratty bit of paper with Vladimir’s email, WhatsApp and Viber contacts, popping it under her pillow whilst meekly promising to pass it on to me.

Which she duly does … and seems vaguely surprised when I immediately ‘file’ the details in the nearest waste paper bin.

Now, I’m sure that Vladimir was a nice bloke, but our interaction was so brief, I don’t think I’d pick him out of a crowd.

Admittedly, from one point of view, I could be passing up the chance to meet a rare and intriguing character who could just be the man of my dreams. But from another point of view, he’s an odd kind of dude who’s barely exchanged ten words with me yet expects me to leap at the chance to stay in touch.

Later that evening, I’m out with one of the girls who works on reception, having a beer and telling her about Vladimir and his granny-bothering.

“I have a habit of attracting oddballs,” I say, as we grab our coats and start walking back to the hostel.

Barely have the words left my lips when a large, bearded guy – all hair and eccentricity – dances up to me, yelling, “WELCOME to Lithuania!” before blowing me a kiss and wafting away.

The girl and I look at each other, and burst into incredulous laughter.

“You’re not wrong,” she says. “All the weirdos come your way.”

And all I can do is nod in agreement.

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Getting it wrong … AGAIN

For a good while there, I had a dilemma. A dilemma that was fully occupying the angel and the devil that sit on my shoulder, and it concerned the Phantom Texter.

We had become close. Perhaps closer than is advisable with someone who is, on paper at the very least, married.

Of course, he never quite managed to explain the doubtless complicated nature of his marriage. (Of course.) But we’d been corresponding for more than six months – with the occasional, 100% platonic get-together for coffee – and, as a consequence, we had become close.

Which is fine and not fine, because it’s hard to know at what point a friendship crosses the line and becomes an inappropriate friendship, even without physical contact.

When the angel was in charge, the simple answer was: when the conversation includes something your partner wouldn’t be happy with. But the devil reckoned that all’s fair in love and war and besides, since when was it my job to be someone else’s Thought Police?

Now, it’s true that since we’re both grown adults, he should be responsible for his own actions. But it’s also true that 50% of the conversation was mine – so 50% of the culpability surely rested at my feet, too?

I can’t help feeling that things would be far more cut and dried had I not been single for so bloody long and he were not the first man in many, many moons who was so appealing. Which I know is no excuse, but the little devil was leaning in and wheedling, “This is your time! Here – finally – is a dashing man who’s into you! You deserve him. Take him! Go on – reach out and grab him!”

Then, of course, the angel would push a hand into the devil’s face, shove him out of the way and says, “But he’s not YOURS!” … and round we’d go again … and again … until I had no idea which way was up and which was down and what the heck was right or wrong.

After a while, these shenanigans made me realise that my so-called morals were rather more elastic that I thought; they were being gradually eroded by familiarity and conversations that were once the very definition of chaste became markedly less so.

Of course, I knew it was morally wrong, but I can’t deny it – my day was brighter when I heard from him and gloomier when I didn’t. And somewhere in my head an alarm bell began to sound: that way danger lies.

But you know what? There were always innumerable obstacles to our get-togethers: extensive work trips, meetings here and there and recurrent bouts of debilitating illness … all genuine events, to be sure, but this guy was so rarely available he made Halley’s Comet look like a regular visitor.

Then, one day, something changed. The dashing gentleman was, as usual, beset by “issues” that required sympathy from me … but, this time, I had an issue of my own.

Was he concerned? Worried for me? Keen to help? Ummm. Not really. He seemed rather keen to get back to talking about his problems. And, actually, he seemed to have very little time for corresponding with me in general.

At first, I wondered if he was OK. I gave him space; tried not to care when he ignored my news or didn’t reply for three days because he really did have a lot on his plate. (He truly did – and still does.)
But suddenly it occurred to me that if he really cared about me, I wouldn’t have to be wondering about his state of mind; he’d let me know for himself. And he wouldn’t feel the need to push me out when things got hectic because I’d be central to his wellbeing.

And then a powerful – but admittedly quite belated – bolt of lightning flashed in my mind: he’s just not that into you. And I realised that it’s a lesson I’ve learned before, but obviously not that well.

You can’t care about someone who doesn’t care about you: it’s not that he can’t call because he’s really busy, it’s that you’re not an important enough part of his day. And if he hasn’t got ten seconds free to send you a text, well … you can work that one out for yourself.

And then all at once, the angel and the devil stopped their clamour; everything fell silent and I realised that there was no dilemma to speak of; no dilemma at all.

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A time for lovers

So here we are again: Valentine’s Day is nearly upon us and, once more, Cupid has left me to fend for myself.

In fact, the chubby cherub d’amour has abandoned me for so long, I’m almost embarrassed by how many of these lovey dovey days I’ve spent alone. I’ve literally been single for years.

Of course, there was the brief interlude that eventually saw the arrival of the little guy – and what a joy he is – but essentially, it’s been just me. For ages and ages and ages.

In truth, I’ve been single for so long, I actually wonder how I’d cope in if the unthinkable happened and I finally found myself in a relationship. It’s awfully easy to get set in your ways when it’s you (and only you) who decides every aspect of your routine, from how the bed is made to what brand of coffee to buy.

Since I’m the kind of person who tends towards rigidity in their habits – no matter how hard I try to fight it – I wonder whether I’d be able to cede control to any newcomer and let them take the driving seat now and again.

Lord knows, I’ve even got the little guy trained to tidy up after himself so I’d probably have an apoplectic fit if I paired up with someone who left dirty socks lying around on the floor.

However, given the circumstances, it’s unlikely to happen any time soon: last week I went for a night out for the first time since Christmas. This is not the way that beautiful new friendships are made.

Cupid has scant chances for success when my day is basically split between work, the nursery run and that housebound, post-infant-bedtime period. Weekends tend to be spent between chores and visits to the park, with the occasional excursion to more exotic locations when the sun shines.

In short, my life is not a hotbed of romantic activity or, indeed, any circumstance that’s likely to invite it.

On the other hand, the Phantom Texter continues his textual charm assault, which brightens my day, but until his circumstances change – something that doesn’t look remotely imminent – it’s a friendship that’s on a hiding to nowhere.

Thank heavens for the little guy, who thrills and delights in equal measure … when he’s not engaged in the ferocious tantrums typical of his age. Truly, there is no patience like that of a parent.

Who knew that simply tearing off and proffering a piece of sandwich could provoke such ire? (“It’s broken!!! Waaaaaaahhhhh!”) Or that choosing the “wrong” pair of socks for his tiny majesty could result in a mini-meltdown of 20 minutes’ duration?

Still, these outbreaks of unbridled rage are balanced with sticky hugs and sloppy kisses; declarations like, “I love you, mummy. You’re my favourite mummy ever!” and inexplicably random comments, such as, “I look like a Judy. Judies have balloons.”

So even though Cupid may have given up on me and I can’t have hearts and flowers, I can at least have grubby little paws wrapped round my neck, sneezes sneezed directly in my face and boogers wiped lovingly onto my arm.

And honestly, if you’ve got that, who needs a fat little fella with a wonky bow and arrow?

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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.

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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?

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Kiss me honey, honey

It’s happened. After what seems like an eternity, it’s finally happened: I kissed a man. A man kissed me. We kissed.

Now, given that my dry period has been longer than summer in the Sahara, you might expect there to have been an explosion of heart-shaped confetti while fireworks traced out the words, “AT LAST” in the sky but, in fact, it was all pretty low-key.

It was also pretty rapid, since I’d had a call to say that the little guy was sitting downstairs with the babysitter and refused to go up to bed until mummy came home, despite it being 11pm. (Woo! Look at me, out at 11pm. Rock’n’roll.)

So the best I could do was a quick lip lock, followed by a swift cycle ride home, where the piglet was ensconced on the sofa, draining the battery of the babysitter’s mobile by watching Peppa Pig on repeat.

And that was that.

I haven’t seen him since; we haven’t even been in touch that much, so it’s fair to assume that there’s unlikely to be a repeat performance.

Actually, he’s a nice guy and good fun but I don’t think he’s ready to hang out with a mummy – even assuming that I’m the mummy he’d go for if he were. Hey ho.

So it’s back to the old drawing board.

In fact, in an odd twist, the old drawing board came back to me this week: not one but two gentlemen from the dating site got in touch out of the blue. We’d chatted – but never met – months and months ago and then, all of a sudden, they both got in touch within ten minutes of each other.

One of them was very keen but lived on the wrong side of London … which was convenient as, judging from his photos, he’s a chain-smoking wide boy with a flashy car and carefully sculpted facial hair. I know, I know … judge not, lest ye be judged, but we look as though we belong to two different universes.

The other guy worked in the building next to mine, but made such a hoo-ha about how on earth we’d manage to spend time together if we did like each other, what with me having an infant-shaped ball and chain tied to my ankle, that I eventually told him that he was right, we’d better not meet for fear of finding ourselves in the depths of such an insurmountable predicament: bound by passion but thwarted by a scheming toddler.

(He also blotted his copybook by asking what was wrong with my teeth. There’s nothing wrong with my teeth, it was just an odd shadow in the photo, but I imagine that if there were something wrong with my teeth, I wouldn’t have taken kindly to his tone.)

Apparently he’d clocked me on my bike one fine day, had liked what he’d seen, and decided to get in touch again. Thanks, I think.

Anyway I felt compelled to remind him that my general situation hasn’t changed one iota since we last chatted. His response? “It was winter then, I was in a bad place.”

Hmmm.

Whilst I understand that winter’s eternal cold and greyness can be a downer, I’m not sure that the arrival of spring will automatically turn someone who sees kids as a carbuncle on their love life into a doting, rosy-cheeked child-lover.

And, to be frank, if he’s not ready to dote, then I’m not ready to date. It goes without saying that the little man is, and always will be, my number one priority.

But I must admit I’m fed up with being single.

As if reading my thoughts, a friend sent me an article this morning, entitled, “Six things that happen when you feel eternally single”. Here’s what it had to say:

1. Your family asks if you have a boyfriend at every gathering
No. No, they don’t even bother asking any more.

2. You become more oblivious to guys who notice you
Possibly. I haven’t noticed anyone checking me out for … ooh, years. But then again, maybe there really was no one checking me out.

3. You start to groom less often
Well, I was never one to be at the beauty salon every weekend, but I like to think that a certain minimum has been maintained…

4. You eat whatever your heart and stomach desire
Well, yes – but why wouldn’t you? I don’t mean to say I’m gorging on creamy double-choc-chip doodahs (not my thing) but if you’re a single mum who barely gets out of the house after 7pm, there is a limited number of ways in which you can spoil yourself.

5. You think about your exes
No, not really. I’m not daft enough to think that any of them was actually “The One” and I was just too blind to see it. Exes are ex for a reason.

6. Everyone has a friend they think they can set you up with
How I wish they would! Not one friend has attempted to set me up with anyone. Ever.

Actually, I have – several times – asked my friends if they know any single men who might consider going on a date with me and the answer has always been a resounding no.

And if your friends can’t imagine you in any state besides single, what the hell hope is there?

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Spring is in the air

Finally – finally! – the lighter nights are coming and spring is on its way. I’m beginning to feel it might be time to crawl from under my stone and shake off the dark shackles of winter. And about time, too.

The little guy is also on a roll: the big boy bed is well and truly bedded in, there are no more after-dark escape attempts and all that’s required of me is to sit outside his door, fending requests for water, furry companions and a complex spectrum of lighting arrangements until he falls asleep five minutes later.

He’s talking lots, and understanding more, so communication has become simpler and, correspondingly, toddler riots fewer. If only things were so harmonious in my love life.

I’m still in touch with Smiley Man, but we’ve turned into message buddies: neither of us have suggested meeting up lately, and neither of us seems particularly bothered if we do or we don’t. So friends it is, and that’s that.

I’ve got a date scheduled this week with a guy who runs his own coffee bar, but whether I’m jaded by experience or just fed up of the whole thing, I can’t muster up much enthusiasm. I know it’s wrong to be put off by excessive punctuation, but when someone tells you that they’ve, “just made a coffee!!!” or that they’re, “at work!!!!!” it’s hard not to feel that your enthusiasm levels could never match theirs.

Still, you never know what fate has in mind, and many a match that seemed perfect on paper has been thoroughly disappointing in real life, so there’s no reason to doubt that an unpromising pairing can turn out to be something absolutely fabulous. So bring on the date.

But honestly, it feels like I’ve met, messaged or discounted pretty much every guy in the local dating pond.

(And before you pick me up on that ‘discounted’, know that, as previously noted, my criteria have been relaxed somewhat. And anyway, let’s be clear, I’ve been rebuffed by just as many candidates as I’ve rejected, if not more.)

So I scroll through the list, seeing the same old faces – gentlemen who presumably are having about as much luck as I am in finding their soul mate – and I can’t help thinking that there must be a better way. I just don’t know what it is yet.

To make things worse, social media is currently full of articles telling me how much better I’ll sleep if I sleep with a companion, how my health will improve if I sleep naked and how much better my sex life will be if I sleep naked with a companion. (Thanks, Einstein; I’d worked that one out for myself.)

It seems that all I need is a naked, snoozling partner and all will be well with the world … which pretty much tallies with my own opinion, but short of clubbing an unsuspecting victim and dragging him back to the cave, what’s a girl to do?

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