Unsuitable men

Greasy carbs and birthday blues

Another year, another birthday … and this one is notable mainly for its lack of festivity and my lack of progress with respect to the previous one. Hey ho.

This time last year, the little guy and I were in Spain. I spent my birthday alone with him and, despite his excellent company, I think it was one of the saddest birthdays of my life.

In previous years, I’d celebrated with a big party and one or more gatherings with friends over morning coffee, afternoon tea, a huge pile of pizza or all three. The contrast between this social saturation and the solitary glass of vino I “enjoyed” while the piglet snoozled in the pram was almost too much to bear.

To be fair to the little guy, he was only seven months old so the concept of ‘birthday’ didn’t really exist for him, otherwise I’m sure he’d have cracked open the party poppers. But as it was, I sniffled into my wine glass then went home to bed.

Fast forward a year and here we are: there’s still no one to shower me with affection or surprise me with cake and that special gift chosen just for me. Yes, I know I’m a fully-grown adult and I do try to pretend it doesn’t matter, but the big kid in me still thinks that birthdays should be special days and that’s that. I just can’t help it.

Anyway, this year I was up for a soothing wander round the arboretum and a slice of cake in the tearoom … but instead a motley group of grandparents and great-grandparents took the little guy to the farm park to throw himself round the soft play area and visit the animals.

We toured the barns and saw fluffy little chicks (“Scary”); huge fat porkers (“Outside now!”); big, greasy sheep (“Baa, baa!”) and a selection of rabbits and guinea pigs (“—”), but the greatest joy was reserved for a bank of brightly-coloured, plastic ride-on tractors, strikingly similar to the push-along cars he plays with at nursery.

The birthday element of the day was saved by evening cocktails in the company of one of my oldest mates. (By which I cast no aspersions about her age; I just mean I’ve known her for yonks. She’s fussy about these things so I have to specify.)

It was nice to leave the house after dark – something that rarely happens these days – and even nicer to sit in the ambience of groovy bar, listening to hipster beats and sipping a Dark and Stormy. I even got chatted up by a man in a tank top.

After pretending to hold a microphone in front of my face (OoooooK?!), his opening gambit was, “I like your top.”

Honestly! That’s what he said.

“Ummm. Yeah,” I replied. “Like yours too.”

My lack of enthusiasm didn’t seem to inspire great conversation, but neither did it deter him.

“Are you from round here?”

Now, I thought my, “NO!” was sufficiently vehement to deter further discussion, but he gamely asked me another question or two before I managed to make my excuses and wend my way back to my mate, cocktails for two clutched tightly in my paws … and, despite the unwanted intrusion, my mate and I had a good old gossip and ended the night by sharing a portion of chips.

And it might not be the same as having handpicked gifts from that special someone, but sometimes gossip and greasy carbs can really warm the cockles of your heart.

Attraction is not an exact science

Soooooo here we again, on another lunchtime date.

It’s a lovely sunny day and as I cycle towards my destination, I’m full of the joys of … well, autumn – even if this glorious day is distinctly unseasonal and about as far from a typical dank, autumn day as it’s possible to get.

Today I have the pleasure of passing my lunch hour with yet another potential beau from the dating site, so I roll up at the appointed hour, only to find that he’s already there. Splendid. I like a man who’s punctual.

We agree that it’s far too nice a day to sit in a coffee shop, so we grab a take out and make our way to the park.

He’s a very nice chap, and we pass a pleasant half hour chatting about this and that: where we’re from, where we work and what we do in our free time. He’s polite, intelligent and pleasant company and I learn that he’s a scientist with a gym habit (alas, my pre-baby gym-going days!). He also has a fluorescent yellow cycling bib, which he doesn’t take off.

As far as conversation goes, I’d happily meet him for another coffee but any hopes of romantic compatibility are dashed by one topic of conversation: lunch. He asks what I my usual arrangements are when I’m at work and not meeting potential love matches in the park.

“Well,” I reply, “I usually make my own food and take it in; we don’t have a canteen at work.”

“Ah, yes,” he says, “I usually make my lunch, too: just some rice or pasta with vegetables and a third of cucumber.”

“Oh,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “A third of a cucumber?”

“Yes,” he replies. “It’s just the right quantity.”

He pauses.

“Well, actually, saying a third is not quite accurate. I have half of a third in the morning, and half of a third in the afternoon.”

“I see,” I say.

And I really do see. Now, I’m aware that I have plenty of foibles of my own – and the longer I’m alone, the more I acquire – but I immediately see that he would be driven batty by my slapdash slicing and I would be driven insane by his precision pruning.

His scientific mind is evidenced again not five minutes later when I mention how the little guy has finally learned to blow bubbles, and how we have fun by chasing them round the garden.

He smiles and looks enthusiastic, saying, “Yes! That’s great. You could try different mixtures, to see which dilution works best!”

I smile at him.

He really is a nice guy, and maybe I’m wrong to judge him so swiftly but … I fear he’s not the guy for me. Or maybe I’m not the lady for him. Either way, I’d happily meet him for a friendly coffee but, as previous experience has shown, that’s not really what people on dating sites tend to want, and so he’s consigned to the ‘no’ pile, cucumber and all.

As I cycle back to work, my phone pings. It’s another message from the dating site.

“Hello sweetie pie,” it begins. “You really are beautiful…”

Before these sweet words curdle on the screen, I flick to check the sender’s profile. Scrolling through age, height and eye colour (who cares?), I go directly to ‘About me’.

The profile is short. In fact, ‘Victory3000’ has written just one word: LOL.

And that, I think, as I get back on my bike, really is all I need to know.

No more Mr Nice Guy…

Another day, another date. This week, it’s the turn of Mr Nice Guy. At least, I think he’s a nice guy, but he’s so reserved it’s hard to tell.

It’s also hard to tell when you’re chasing after a toddler who’s looking for conkers among the dog deposits in the local park and you’re not even sure how you ended up on this date anyway.

Allow me to explain…

It’s late on a Friday evening and I get a message from a guy on the dating site. I check out his profile and, if I’m honest, I find nothing that particularly attracts me, so – as dating site etiquette demands – I ignore the message.

And then I get another message, telling me that I’m “not willing to admit” that I “need to take a risk here. A simple chat and a coffee is what I expect.”

I feel slightly indignant. So you “expect” a coffee do you? Well, good for you.

And then the guy tells me that he thinks he knows me, and wonders if I “dare” to answer him.

To be honest, his face does look vaguely familiar, but that could just be the number of times I’ve seen it on the dating site. We’re fishing in a small pond in this town. Still, the tone of his message irks me and I reply that I have no idea if he knows me, but I surely don’t know him. And it’s not a question of daring, it’s a question of not being interested.

And I don’t know how, but there’s something about the way that he immediately backs down that makes me think he may not be the arrogant idiot he’s just made himself out to be and before I know it, I’ve agreed to go for a coffee with him the next afternoon.

So here we are, in the park, collecting conkers.

And he really doesn’t seem to be arrogant. In fact, it’s very hard to make any judgement on him at all, because he’s perfectly polite and pleasant and he doesn’t mind when the little guy assaults him and requests conker-carrying and all the rest, but I have very little idea of who he may be or what he might like or what makes him get out of bed in the morning.

It’s not that he’s cagey about his life: he tells me about his family and what brings him here and where he works and what he does but … somehow I get no idea of his personality and I feel none the wiser. I’m mightily thankful that he doesn’t fall into the Jekyll and Hyde category but, based on what I’ve seen so far, there’s nothing to suggest we’d be the next Bonnie and Clyde, either.

And so we take our leave.

I reply to his next message to say thank you for meeting up, but I don’t really imagine there’ll be any romance between us, though I’d be open to a friendly coffee now and then if he’d like. And this, I believe, was my mistake.

You see, I wasn’t playing hard to get or anything like that. I really did mean that I’d be up for a friendly coffee now and then … and nothing more.

Unfortunately, he seemed to read, “I don’t want to kiss you right away but keep persevering and it might happen.” Which is awkward.

He messages me frequently throughout the next couple of days, professing his friendship whilst wondering what it might be like to kiss me … and eventually suggests meeting at mine for a few drinks once the little man is in bed. And I may be completely wrong, but that doesn’t sound at all like a friendly proposition to me.

And so I do the only thing I can think of to get the message across: I ignore him. Which is rude and feels uncomfortable, but then so does deflecting someone’s over-enthusiastic attentions on a daily basis.

So that’s it; no more Mr Nice Guy and back to the drawing board for me. But I’m not giving up – oh no, I’m not. Because if I meet enough frogs, slippery little amphibians that they are, surely one of them, one day will be the prince that’s worth kissing…

Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde

Oh. My. God. Ohmygod. Omigod, omigod, omigod! I went for a date with a guy and … he was NICE!

Now, I understand this may sound as though I’m damning him with faint praise, but considering my usual fortune with the opposite sex … well, let’s just say I’m reluctant to go overboard prematurely.

Anyway, the Resting Administrator – he’s taking a break from his usual admin career to come to the UK and improve his English, as well as date the locals – is tall, dark, handsome and, shockingly, nice. I can hardly believe it. For once, the dating site has come good, I think.

Although our date is brief, we have time to go for a coffee, take a walk and sit in the sunshine, watching the world go by. And we have a thoroughly pleasant time. So it seems only logical to arrange another date to see how this thing progresses.

And so we arrange for a drink the next evening (I know – evening! Get me…) in a pub that’s close enough to home to facilitate a quick dash if anything happens that my dear babysitting friend can’t cope with.

Although the gap between the little guy’s bedtime and the start of the date doesn’t leave time for a whole heap of preening, I brush my teeth, do my hair and treat myself to a slick of lipstick. At eight o’clock sharp I’m stood at the appointed place and…

… my date isn’t there.

Undeterred, I take a seat and try to resist the temptation to fiddle with my phone. Not five minutes later he arrives, apologises for his tardiness and zips off to get the drinks.

And it’s then that the wheels come off the wagon.

Because when he sits back down, he’s not the charming man I spent the afternoon with; he’s a leering, over-“friendly” guy who’s either undergone a complete character transformation or has made a little too free with the pre-dinner sherry.

I sit, perplexed, as he tells me he’s disappointed that I didn’t immediately start calling him ‘baby’ or ‘honey’ as he had done in his texts. Then he embarks upon an embittered rant about how the people in his building don’t respect him and how wrong this is as he’s always respected other people and even as a teenager he never disrespected anyone and if I did then I’m surely a bad person…

Initially, I just feel bored listening to him rave on. And then I begin to question why I’m sitting there at all. I’ve got barely an inch down my drink and I already know that this is going nowhere. And so I raise my hand to bring his torrent of bitter words to a halt.

He looks at me for a moment, and blinks.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not having a nice time. In fact, I’m feeling quite uncomfortable and I’d like to go home now.”

Immediately, he wilts.

“Sorry,” he says. “Yes … I’m sorry … of course … let’s go.”

I half-expect him to contest my decision, but at the door he just apologises meekly once more and we part.

My babysitting friend mimes disbelief as I walk through the door not 45 minutes after I’ve left.

“Already?!” she says. “What happened?”

And so I tell her.

And the next day, I receive a string of apologetic messages, but it’s plain that there’s no going back from here. I reply to one, then delete the rest. Eventually, he falls silent.

I feel utterly confused. How can someone’s character change from black to white – and back again – in so short a space of time? But I refuse to let one setback get in the way of my new dating regime. In fact, the very next day I get another message from another gentleman who – on the surface at least – appears to be quite normal, and a date is duly arranged.

Now, I’m working on the basis that a girl would have to be very unlucky indeed to meet two crazy guys in one week, right?

Let’s hope I’m right because I’m meeting him for coffee in half an hour…

Home is … wherever I’m with you

This week I have been visiting houses: flats, maisonettes, detached and semi … I’ve viewed an unreasonable number of overpriced abodes in varying states of decoration and repair.

House hunting is always stressful, but never more so than when you have a small and sticky person to accommodate. It seems that miniature humans are personae non gratae for many a landlord, presumably fearful of crayon marks on their otherwise pristine walls. (Pristine? Ha. Aha. Ahahahahaha.)

I mean, it’s not as if the little tinkers are the future generations who’ll be paying for our pensions and keeping the world turning once our generation is old and grey. No, they are merely a nuisance, to be avoided at all costs.

Actually, I wouldn’t mind if the landlord had met my child and found him to be lacking in social graces (a thing that would never happen, obviously) but to be against all kids, irrespective of age or behaviour…?

Why is it OK to discriminate against ALL wee folk, when you’d never get away with precluding huge swathes of the adult population from inhabiting your de luxe dwelling? Sure, some kids are noisy and some kids are messy, but hey … plenty of adults’ behaviour leaves a lot to be desired, too.

Anyway, ranting is pointless, but the truth is, it’s fiendishly difficult to find accommodation in this town, without being excluded from the ‘nicer’ stuff from the off. I’ve seen any number of premium-priced pads with walls that infant artwork could only improve and carpets that pre-date my son by at least a decade. And all of them are snapped up by eager beavers with more cash than sense … or at least a sense of desperation that exceeds my own.

Now, if I were paired off, then the combined income of me and my beau would surely afford us something more sophisticated (such as a mortgage) but the spending power of one – in combination with exorbitant nursery fees – means that my boy and I are destined for the lower echelons of the rentals market, where cleanliness is considered an optional extra.

The thing is, when you’re childless, a few homeless days between contracts means kipping on a friend’s couch. When you’ve got a nipper, things take on a different complexion. Little people need routine, and they protest vociferously if that routine is disrupted – usually at two-hourly intervals throughout the night.

And so the search continues. Quite what I’ll do if the perfect property fails to materialise I just don’t know. I suppose I’ve always got a tent … just nowhere to pitch it.

Still, on a positive note, the little guy continues to amaze and delight with his new-found word power (sample conversation: “Do you want to go to bed?” “Yes!” “Are you sure?” “No.”) and his sudden ability to sleep until 6am. (Yesssss!)

Even better, the Baby Daddy and the wee man finally spent some quality time together. At Daddy’s insistence, mummy wasn’t present … which means that mummy was able to loaf in the park with a book while some serious father-and-son bonding took place. Splendid.

Furthermore, the Aura of Romantic Doom continues to abate: I’m in conversation with yet another potentially charming gentleman, which at least gives the illusion of progress even if the correspondence has yet to bear fruit.

So now all I need is a roof over my head. If anyone fancies playing landlord to the two best tenants in the world, drop me a line at the usual address.

Baby’s back in town

Aaaaaand here we are. Back in town.

When we bundled up our lives six months ago and said farewell to our old life, who could have imagined we’d be back so soon, like the proverbial bad penny?

A pair of little and large vagabonds, we spent a couple of months with a dear friend in Spain and then it was back to my hometown to spend precious time with grandma and great-grandma. But my hometown is small, and all my friends have moved on, so when an old employer called me with a job offer I couldn’t refuse … well, I couldn’t refuse. So here we are.

It’s good to be back in the city again; I love having space and people all around me and mummy friends to share a coffee with, but it does feel odd to have come full circle. I see my old friends when I can, but the little guy is no longer as portable as he once was, so I pretty much have a 7pm curfew – not great for my social life.

Of course, I don’t regret my situation for a minute and I’m hugely grateful for the little man’s presence but … the evenings do get quite lonely. I’m fine with my own company but even I get bored of me seven days a week. And sometimes I’m overwhelmed by the feeling that it’s just me. From paying the bills to organising the entertainment, it’s all on my shoulders.

Last week, when the boy and I were both ill, I realised how fragile our little set-up is: without me to hold it all together … well, there’s no one else there.

Help came in the form of two kind friends who delivered groceries and babysat for a while, along with good old grandma who endured a week of baby bodily fluids erupting from all quarters. But most of my friends have busy lives or families (or both) and grandma has plenty on her plate already. So although I can ask for help in emergencies, sometimes I want someone to pamper me just because.

And when I say ‘pamper’ I don’t mean anything spectacular. My ambitions are fairly modest as far as pampering goes. I’m not after massages and candlelight and roses; I’m thinking more in terms of slapping a solid snack in front of me and talking to me while I eat it. Oh, and holding the wee one while I put the bins out. See? Nothing too extravagant at all.

It is (I imagine) the sort of thing that my other half would do for me, if I had one. And of course, I’d be willing to reciprocate.

Though it’s not that I’m after someone to look after me, because I can perfectly well look after myself. But it’d be nice to have someone to share things with, both good and bad; someone to snuggle up with when it’s cold outside or berate me when I’ve forgotten to buy toothpaste for the third time this week.

So, although a lady with a baby is not (I imagine) the world’s greatest catch, I’ve signed up for a dating site. Again.

… and it’s refreshing to know that even though I’ve been out of circulation for a year or so, my niche fan group remains the same: my first profile views are from a 19 year old and a 57 year old. And the two (two!) guys that I found interesting enough to send a message to both completely ignored me.

So where should I go from here? If you can’t get out in the evening to socialise with adults, your friends don’t know any singles and you don’t get any joy with dating sites, what’s left?

Maybe it really is time to dig out the sandwich board and wander the streets professing my singledom. Or perhaps I could raffle myself off as the booby prize in a charity draw. It may sound far-fetched, but if you’ve got any better ideas, just let me know.

Full-on festivities … and mild miscommunication

Crumbs it’s been a busy Christmas. Get-togethers, fond farewells and joyous reunions littered the start of December, leaving barely a free evening for me and Bub to sit and contemplate life, the universe and everything.

Even if you ignore the countless parties, my Christmas started the weekend before the official festivities, when one of my oldest and dearest girlfriends and I zipped off to Estonia to sample the delights of Tallinn’s Christmas markets.

Small but perfectly formed, Tallinn couldn’t fail to bring out the Christmas in all but the most hardened of Scrooges: from the picture-perfect snow glazing the rooftops to the smell of mulled wine wafting across the frozen marketplace, Tallinn says Christmas with a capital C.

And you can’t help but think of Santa and the North Pole as the glacial wind blows powdery snow into your eyes and hair, sending you scurrying for the nearest candlelit café – a dark and cosy haven offering top quality coffee and cake … or, perhaps, a fortifying bowl of elk soup. Deeeeelicious.

Anyway, maybe it was the cold, maybe it was the excitement, or maybe it was the first-class company, but Tallinn seemed to bring out the lively side of Bub: he barely stopped kicking, punching and rolling all weekend.

It was only mildly inconvenient when he (rather frequently) chose to recline on my ribcage, blocking the airflow to my poor old lungs. Luckily, my mate has the patience of a saint and was, apparently, happy to wait in the freezing cold while I blew like a rhino and attempted to get my breath back.

(Not that I’m complaining. Whether it’s medically accurate or not, in my book a lively baby means a healthy baby and I’m more than grateful for that. He can boot my innards as much as he likes – it’s a sign he’s getting fatter, stronger and ready to face the world.)

Still, laden with Estonian pottery, a selection of cured reindeer meat and a pair of reindeer-patterned legwarmers (an essential purchase), we returned feeling highly content and infinitely more festive than when we’d arrived.

And so I passed a very mellow Christmas with the folks, in which I tried – and, I think, failed miserably – not to reveal the gender of my offspring to my dear old gran. I don’t know why she doesn’t want to know, she just doesn’t. But I think my treating Bub to his very first sleepsuits, adorned with blue and green monsters, may have been a hint that even she couldn’t ignore.

Anyway, despite it not even really qualifying as his first Christmas, the little fella was spoiled to death and now has a whole selection of sleepsuits, nappies and tiny trousers, not to mention several jackets and hats from keen and generous relatives who have shown themselves to be more than handy with a pair of knitting needles.

But all too soon, the holidays are over and it’s back to real life. I’ve just got a new mobile and I’m trying to keep my old number. But it seems that I’ve made a grave error: I should have spotted some sort of tickbox at the time of ordering. But I didn’t. And now the guy on the phone is telling me there’s nothing I can do.

“Unless,” he says, soothingly, “you go instore. They should be able to cancel your contract and start a new one, which will let you keep your old number.”

Well, why on earth didn’t you say so? I’m more than happy to pop instore if it’ll solve the problem. So, off I trot into town where, after a 20 minute wait to be served, I explain my predicament to Mr Mobile Phone.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes, we can sort you out. We just need to cancel the old contract and return your phone to stock. After that, we’ll start the new contract and resell you the old phone. It’s quite straightforward.”

So he cancels my existing contract. Simple. But then he tries to return the phone to stock and there’s a problem. The system is convinced it’s already been returned to stock and won’t let him do it. He tries all sorts of cunning tricks, then cancels everything and starts again. Then he repeats the whole process.

“Ha!” he says. “This is the point where, if I knew you better, I’d tell you that you owed me dinner.”

And he flashes me a cheeky smile.

I smile non-committally as he goes through the whole rigmarole once more before throwing in the towel and calling the IT department. As he waits on hold, he smiles at me.

“It’s not going well!”

“Sorry,” I say, thinking that if I’d only seen the flipping checkbox, we’d both have been spared this troublesome process.

“No problem,” he twinkles. “It could be far worse. I could be sitting here with someone miserable and grumpy instead of someone lovely and smiley like you.”

After a prolonged wait and a technical discussion, the system finally allows itself to be cajoled into accepting the return and it seems like we’re on a roll. Until he tries to re-sell me the phone. Whereupon the computer says no. Again.

He raises his eyebrows and looks at me.

“Hmmm,” he says. “I think this must definitely be worth lunch.”

I raise an eyebrow, and offer a questioning look. I’m six months pregnant and you’re flirting with me? Really?

Finally the IT department works its magic, the phone can be resold and it looks as if the torturous process can finally be completed. I’ve been in the shop for almost an hour and a half.

As he parcels up the assorted documents produced by these shenanigans, Mr Mobile Phone hands me a piece of paper on which I’d written the number I wanted to keep.

“Better take that. You wouldn’t want anyone getting hold of your number now, would you?” he says hopefully.

“No,” I say, smiling. “No, I wouldn’t want that.”

And as he looks very slightly crestfallen, I thank him politely, gather my papers and head out of the door.

A burgeoning bump and divine intervention

I don’t understand this.

Yesterday my trousers fitted, and today they don’t.

Yesterday, I was still quite comfortably sneaking a pair of thermal long johns under my size 12s. But today, when I slip them on, I fear I’m restricting the flow of oxygen to such a point that I’ll be lucky not to end up on the floor before lunchtime.

Of course, my t-shirts have long been upgraded to ‘comfortable fit’ options, thanks to the almost immediate appearance of the gigantaboobs of pregnancy, but I’d been clinging to the thought that – even at five months pregnant – I was still slinky-hipped enough to wear my own jeans. It seems, however, that my transformation from human to beach ball has begun.

The next day everything’s back to normal. How confusing. Still, I think it may be time to start checking out the maternity section for a pair of pants that will allow me to breathe easily whatever my circumference, and won’t squish Bub just as he’s trying to stretch his tiny little legs.

To be honest, up until now I’ve been quite happy with my diminutive bump. Although I have, on occasion, fretted about its dimensions, on the whole I’ve been grateful to be spared much of the spontaneous tummy-touching that a generous belly seems to attract.

Of course, I don’t mind friends giving Bub an affectionate pat, but when nodding acquaintances start getting in on the act, it can be a bit alarming, especially if the tummy touch is unannounced. My first reaction is to suck my belly in and dive away, but that’s getting a little harder with each month that passes.

The only downside of having a small belly is that I don’t really look very pregnant. Naturally, people who knew me pre-pregnancy can see immediately what’s up, but others just think I ate all the pies – and when your look is more paunchy than pregnant, compliments are few and far between.

Sure, people may tell you that you’re blooming or that pregnancy suits you, but your sexiness rating takes a hard and sustained nosedive. Nobody tells you that you look sexy, mostly because you don’t. (The possible exception to this may be the father of the child you’re carrying, but in my case the less said about that the better.) So imagine my surprise to be on the receiving end of a host of compliments from a dashing young gentleman with the face of an angel and dimples to die for.

Honestly, if I were a few years younger, or he were a few years older, I’d have snapped the Divine One up like an oven-fresh muffin. Tall, dark and exceptionally handsome with a killer smile and – yes, those dimples – this young man is truly gorgeous. He’s also intelligent, erudite and charming. What’s not to like?

But even as I utter the words, “young man” you see the fly in the ointment: at just 25, the Divine One sits on the cusp of the lower of my speciality categories – the under 25s and over 55s.

If I’m honest, I find his attraction to me completely unfathomable; I’m older, wrinklier and rounder … none of which are characteristics a young man tends to look for in his ideal woman. And although he’s endlessly complimentary, I’m still not 100% sure he’s not just having a laugh at my expense.

Still, I’ve decided I’ll take his comments at face value, not least because it makes me feel good. And in the midst of worries about money, accommodation, employment and the Baby Daddy, feeling unreservedly good is a rare commodity to be nurtured and cherished. And even if I find it impossible to see how my increasing circumference qualifies me to be considered attractive, I’m more than happy to accept that someone else does.

Because even if I do say so myself, the fact that I feel like a slightly over-stuffed sausage is absolutely no reason for me to lose my sizzle. So bring on the flattery, Divine One, bring it on…

Another slippery customer

It’s funny, but since I decide to give up on men, it’s as if they’ve decided to give up on me.

Now that I’m safely ensconced in an office for 37.5 hours a week, rather than roaming about like the footloose freelancer I once was, I’ve had no random nutters approach me in the street, The Bull has been quiet as a mouse, Normal Guy has been holding his silence and I’ve only had the occasional email from the Darkly Intriguing.

In short, it’s been pretty peaceful.

Of course, the fact that the nights are drawing in and the air is getting a little crisper naturally changes things. The joie de vivre of summer is fading, but we’ve yet to substitute it for the cosy charms of winter. Everyone’s getting low on bounce and facing the fact that a whole heap of cold, murky weather awaits us.

But despite my natural aversion to wind and rain, I’ve got to say that I’m quite enjoying my romantic solitude. Or at least, I was until I encountered The Guttersnake at a friend’s birthday party.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen him, but my discomfort in his presence has remained undiminished since an ill-advised lip-lock shortly after my break-up from The One I Almost Married.

Reader, I snogged him. And he’s pursued me with a burning ardour ever since.

Now, you’d think I’d be pleased to be desired with such passion. But the truth is that The Guttersnake is one of the slimiest, creepiest, most unctuous human beings I’ve ever met.

Or at least he is with me.

I’m assuming that most of his many friends don’t have the same impression of him, but then his hand probably isn’t tracing a path from their shoulder to their behind on a regular basis. His endless innuendo knows no limits: he never tires of making suggestive comments, or flashing come-hither eyes at me despite my greeting his every advance with a marked froideur. Heaven knows why I ever thought it was a good idea to snog him.

In my defence, I have a vague recollection of whisky being involved. I’d also not long had my heart smashed to smithereens, but everyone was telling me that I’d have to jump back into the fray sometime… And so I thought, why risk a snog with someone you might actually like when, as experience had taught me, it could all go so horribly wrong?

With hindsight, I can see that this logic was distinctly flawed. But now we’re almost two years on, and I daren’t say something as simple as, “I’m tired” in his presence, as that will remind him of the bedroom and start him on a litany of ‘romantic’ proposals, usually involving alcohol or massage oil. Or both.

Tonight he’s on fine form.

I’m having a quiet conversation with a girlfriend about my recent insomnia and she’s offering me her suggestions for a sound night’s kip. Naturally, The Guttersnake pricks up his ears.

“Oh!” says the spellbound eavesdropper. “You’re having trouble sleeping?

I reluctantly acknowledge the problem, with a sinking feeling about what’s coming next.

“You must be stressed!” he says. “I’m sure could help relax you. A warm bath, a glass of wine, maybe a soothing massage…”

And he gives the kind of smile that makes my skin crawl.

We then engage in a polite, verbal battle wherein he pretends to be interested in my welfare whilst trying to work out how my predicament could help him get into my pants … and I watch him doing it and squirm.

I’m saved by a call from another girlfriend, who’s waiting outside to take me to another party. (I know, I know. Sometimes you just have to live the lifestyle…)

He leaps up to say goodbye.

“You’re leaving so soon?” he says and paws at the back of my neck as he gazes into my eyes.

“Umm, yes,” I say awkwardly, “Places to go, people to see…”

“Don’t forget my offer!” he calls, giving me a wink as I head out of the door.

It takes a good five minutes for the shudders to subside.

The next party is already in full flow and my girlfriend hands me a drink.

“Thank you,” I say, and raise my glass.

Suppressing a little shudder, I make a toast: “To romantic solitude!”

My girlfriend gives me a curious look. But she raises her glass and smiles.

A warm welcome and Unsuitable Man #6

I can barely believe it. I’m back in the UK and … it’s warm. Woo-hoo!

It’s just after midnight by the time my plane lands, and I’m bracing myself for impact: a cold wind perhaps, maybe a bit of rain. But no. It’s not cold. It’s midnight and I don’t even need my jacket. How’s that for a warm welcome?

Although I’m a bit sad to say adios to Barcelona, I can’t deny I’ve had ten glorious days … being blissfully ignored by menfolk. Although I met some very nice guys, none of them was interested in me. Or at least, not interested enough to let me know about it.

There was one guy who caressed my elbow hopefully whilst he very kindly waited with me for the night bus, but an elbow caress is easy to ignore. So I did.

The Bull, however, has been messaging me throughout my trip, but I think I’ll have to nip that in the bud.

He’s a nice enough guy, but there’s still something about him that makes me uneasy. And if I’m honest, although he’s good company, I just don’t fancy him. His attentions are flattering, but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. So that’s the end of that.

It’s good to know that I haven’t lost my touch with the older generation, though.

I’m sitting in the library, getting on with some work, when I feel someone looking at me. Unsuitable Man #6 is sketching those around him, and it seems that it’s now my turn. He catches my eye as he looks up again, and we exchange a brief smile before I turn back to my work.

I’m quite absorbed in what I’m doing, so I almost leap out of my skin when I find him at my elbow, proffering the fruits of his labour.

“I thought you might like to have this,” he says, holding out what can only be described as a child-like sketch, clumsily executed in blunt charcoal.

“Oh … erm … thank you!” I say, with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. “That’s very kind of you.”

My acceptance of his oeuvre seems to open the floodgates, and he tells me how he’s taken up drawing since his retirement (yes, ladies, he’s over 65) and finds the library a good place to develop his art. He’s been having trouble mastering charcoal, apparently, but he’s sure that if he just perseveres, he’ll get there in the end.

I murmur something encouraging, but actually, I’m itching to get back to my work. I don’t want to be rude, though, so we chat for a few minutes more before he says, with an earnest eye:

“Perhaps I could buy you a coffee?”

“That’s very kind of you,” I say, “but I’ll be going for lunch shortly.”

“Well then,” he ventures, with a twinkle in his eye that I’m keen to quell, “maybe a sandwich…?”

“Thank you,” I reply, a bit more firmly this time, “I’m meeting a friend for lunch. But thank you very much, it’s very kind of you to offer.”

Only slightly abashed, he returns to his sketching, while I’m obliged to gather up my belongings and tootle off for “lunch with a friend”.

As I leave, I have to stifle a smile. I may have decided to give up on searching for the love of my life, but to the over 65s, my appeal remains undiminished.

I just can’t keep the old tigers at bay.