Unsuitable men

Making an escape

Well, Normal Guy has turned out to be a bit of a damp squib.

After his first message, none of his replies have exceeded 20 words, and the few tidbits he’s thrown my way haven’t exactly been action packed. Who is he? What does he like doing? What floats his boat? Well, to be honest, I have no idea.

I thought I’d try to lure him into conversation by writing two whole paragraphs … but that failed, too. At this rate, it’ll take six months before I have any idea of his personality at all.

Anyway, since messaging is free, and there are plenty of people who are vibrant and engaging in the flesh but just don’t cut it on the page, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for now. But I must admit my initial enthusiasm has been squashed a bit.

But no matter, because a new week has brought a new paramour vying for my attentions: The Bull.

Now, you might think this is an overly dramatic nickname for someone, but if you saw him, you’d be nodding your head like one of those dogs that sits on the back shelf of the car: he’s properly beefy.

Beefy isn’t a type that I usually go for, so I’m not sure how I feel about it. But to be honest, I think there may be more problematic aspects to this friendship than physical dimensions alone…

The Bull is one of those friends of a friend who’s been on the periphery of my group for a while, yet I couldn’t claim to know the first thing about him. Although he seems nice enough, there’s something about him that makes me uneasy – but I don’t have a clue what it is.

He’s about the right age for me; he seems bright and interesting and he’s making all the right sort of moves. And yet. And yet…

Of course, my antenna could be wildly off the mark: Lord knows I’m not renowned for my ability to pick a good ‘un, so it stands to reason that my ability to spot a wrong ‘un should be no more accurate.

Maybe it’s just the unusual enthusiasm with which he’s thrown himself into courting me that makes me suspicious, but I have a feeling that he’s a bad boy who’s not to be trusted. At any rate, I’ll keep an eye on my twitching antenna but, again, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

But one person for whom the benefit of the doubt has well and truly expired is Uni Boy. Suffice to say that we had a minor disagreement that escalated into a major disagreement … and ended with me pouring a beer on his head.

Now, I know that sort of thing isn’t big and it isn’t clever, but sometimes words just don’t cut it. Part of me is dreadfully sorry that I did it, but I’ll confess that part of me thinks he had it coming. And that’s the part that hasn’t got in touch to apologise or make amends.

So it’s probably just as well that I’ve been given the opportunity to get myself out of town for a while. Being able to drop everything at a moment’s notice is one of the few benefits of being single. And when someone offers you the run of an apartment in the centre of Barcelona – no questions asked – you’d have to be an idiot to refuse.

It took me about an hour to accept and book my flights.

As of tomorrow, I’ll be leaving behind all thoughts of Uni Boy, Normal Guy and The Bull and filling my head with thoughts of sunshine and sangría. And who could complain about that?

Arriba, abajo, al centro … pa’ dentro! Cheers!

The nutters are back

Predictably, Uni Boy came round. Equally predictably, we had a great time. And even more predictably, the next day he decided that we shouldn’t see each other anymore.

When he left my place, he was full of a cold, but otherwise happy. So I was a bit surprised when, later in the afternoon, he messaged me and started ranting about how I wasn’t helping him to stop seeing me (ummm … hello personal responsibility?) and how whenever I offered him anything I always wanted something in exchange (not strictly true, but if that’s how you feel… ).

It’s lucky the whole exchange was online. I should have hated to see him burst a blood vessel in real life.

The whole argument was so inflated and illogical that I was actually worried about him. Mindful of how things can be misinterpreted online, I tried to call. But he hung up on me. Twice.

So that, pretty much, is that. I can be upset about something once, but getting upset a second time would just be dumb. Still, the encounter wasn’t a complete waste of time: it was fun (mostly) and Uni Boy made me feel sexy again. So wherever he’s sulking right now, I’d like to thank him for that. He’s a good guy and I’m sure he’ll make some young lady very happy.

Anyway, even if all my other powers of attraction are failing me, it’s good to know that my prowess as a nutter magnet remains undiminished.

It’s 8.30am and I’m coming out of the house just as the weekly rubbish collection is in full swing. I’m not sure whether I see him or hear him first, but there’s a guy stood on the pavement, giving the binmen a full military salute and belting out some unrecognisable tune at top volume.

The guy is dirty. Dirty in a way that you rarely see outside of a coal mine. Although he’s obviously tanned, his skin has a grey layer of grime that says he has many unwashed days behind him. Still, his face radiates joy and he’s beaming delightedly as he warbles away.

As soon as he sees me, he turns his attention in my direction, and starts on a new crowd-pleaser.

“Feel so good … I feel so fine! Love that little lady always on my mind …”

Wow. Black Sabbath before 9am? I’m impressed.

He continues his high-volume serenade as he crosses the street, and even though he’s now just inches away from me, he’s still caterwauling like Freddy Mercury at Madison Square Gardens. I stand there and smile placidly at him, mostly because I have no idea what else to do.

As he wails on, there’s an awkward moment where I wonder how long I’ll have to stay here and whether it would be rude to leave mid-performance. Fortunately, he reaches the end of the verse, performs a flourishing bow, turns on his heel and leaves.

Yep, my nutter appeal remains intact. Satisfied, I climb on my bike and cycle towards work. I’m still contemplating his performance as I queue for my morning espresso.

“George Osborne is a complete tosser!”

I’m dragged from my reverie by the unsolicited exclamation of the guy ahead of me in the queue.

“Mmmnnnfff?” I mutter, questioningly. “Why, what’s he done today?”

“Dunno,” comes the insouciant reply. “He’s just a tosser.”

“Ah,” I say, non-committally. “I see.”

Quirky Guy spins on his heel, and the conversation appears to be over. I raise my eyebrows quietly. 100% Nuttersville.

He spins on his heel once more, and we’re on again.

“I once knew a guy who went to school with George Osborne,” he says, in a slightly triumphant tone.

“I asked him why he didn’t beat his brains out in the playground … but he said he didn’t have any!”

Spin! goes the heel, and silence descends.

Really, I think, this town has more than its fair share of quirky characters. Far from feeling dejected, I should feel happy, if not delighted – no, flattered that I’m still bloody single.

On and off and on again…

So Uni Boy, the keen bean, turns up just 30 minutes after my arrival. And he graces me with his presence again the next day. And the next.

It’s good to spend some time in his company, lolling around doing nothing much and indulging in lots of kisses and cuddles and you-can-imagine-what-else.

But of course, this state of idle bliss can’t last.

On day three, we’re sitting having lunch in the sunshine, when he turns to me and says, “I don’t think we should do this anymore. Romantically, I mean…”

He smiles apologetically.

To be honest, I can’t say I’m surprised. It seems pretty much par for the course. I imagine that, if I let him, he’ll keep changing his mind eternally, until something better comes up for either or both of us.

So I smile beatifically at him, feeling the sun making freckles on my face, and say, “OK.”

Maybe he’s surprised that I acquiesce so readily. Maybe not. But the sun of Istanbul has boosted my spirits and although my buoyant mood might be slightly dented, it’s not completely deflated.

Besides, I’m on a high from our three-day cuddle-a-thon … but as much as I’m a sucker for hugs and affection, I’m demanding enough to want them on tap, not just when the other party feels ready to dish them out. All in all, I have to conclude that it’s been fun and it’s been convenient but maybe it really is time to quit.

So we lapse back into a comfortable silence and keep sipping our wine until the sun goes down.

The next day, at a lazy afternoon BBQ, I’m chatting to a friend about my dismal success rate with the opposite sex.

“Aha!” says friend triumphantly. “I have the answer! I read it in a magazine: if you go on 100 dates, you’re guaranteed to find a partner.”

I consider this for a moment, while my friend looks at me expectantly.

“Fine,” I say, although I’m far from convinced. “But where do I find 100 men to date?”

Here, friend looks a bit sheepish.

“Well,” he says. “That’s the big question!”

Indeed it is.

If I could meet and date 100 single men, the scales would surely tip in my favour. The laws of probability must dictate that one out of 100 is decent, funny, kind and interested in me. But the magical 100 is a long way off: I could probably count all my dates from the last two years without running out of fingers. At this rate I’ll be revving up my zimmer for a hot date at the bingo before I’m even halfway to 100.

Plus, the fact that the guy is right for me is no guarantee that I’ll be right for him. As has proved to be the case on many an occasion.

In rose-tinted moments, Uni Boy questions my tragically single status.

“You must be too picky,” he says, “You could have anyone you want.”

While I’m obviously flattered, it’s been a very long time since I could have whomever I wanted. If, indeed, I ever could. No, lately I seem to have had more than my fair share of unrequited crushes, and a series of men who are semi-suitable at best.

Like Uni Boy himself, for example.

I’m halfway home when my phone pings to announce the arrival of a text message. Guess who?

“Are you asleep? Be nice to meet up…”

I stifle an ironic snort. This boy changes his mind more often than I change my undies. But honestly, if it’s a choice between sleeping cosily in someone’s arms and sleeping alone, which would you pick?

So with grim inevitability, I whizz a text back.

“Be home in 5 minutes. See you there.”

I know I deserve a slap on the wrist. And I suspect I’m going to get one, too. I hope my mother doesn’t hear about this, cos if she does, I just know she’s going to kill me…

The Italian Stallion

I said that one day I’d get round to talking about him, and since I’ve nothing more pressing to relate, today’s the day…

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, The Italian Stallion was the main man in my life.

Although, as the name suggests, he was physically delectable – the phrase “hunktastic, muscle-bound stud muffin” would be no exaggeration – this wasn’t some passing fling based on animal attraction. No, this was the longest relationship in my dating history: we were together for almost five years.

Despite his brawny body and penchant for skin-tight t-shirts, the Italian Stallion was actually rather a quiet sort. He wasn’t exactly shy, he just had little need of others around him.

We met when I was living in Sicily – when I was teaching English, to be precise. He was my star pupil: homework always done, he never missed a lesson and was never late, despite working in his uncle’s bar 20km away and finishing his shift just 30 minutes before the start of class.

After completing the elementary course with flying colours and taking time out to do his military service, he decided to enrol for private lessons … which, after several months, became suddenly and unexpectedly more private: he took me to dinner to celebrate my birthday … and that was that.

To be honest, I never expected the relationship to last: seven years my junior, he was definitely toyboy material; I was sure his interest in me would soon wane. But the weeks turned into months, and then into years. And when I moved back to the UK – much to his mother’s consternation – he decided to come with me.

The night before our departure she took me to one side and, in a confidential tone, imparted the crucial information that I would need if I were to make a go of looking after her boy: he likes his pasta with ricotta salata, not parmesan, and too much salame will give him haemorrhoids.

Okidoke.

Thus equipped, we made our way to the UK together, where we lived happily for a few more years. I think everyone expected us to be together forever. I’m sure I did.

And so, you might be wondering, where did it all go wrong?

Well, in some ways it would have been great to live happily ever after with The Italian Stallion: he was loyal, dependable and constant in his affections. (Since he was a red-blooded Sicilian male, I’m reluctant to apply the word ‘faithful’, although as far as I know I never had any cause for concern.)

I loved him and my family loved him, and I’m sure we could have tootled along quite happily for many years to come. And yet … and yet …

The age thing was of some concern to me: clearly, I’d be thinking babies well before he would. But that aside, the biggest difference between us was that he was always happy with what he’d got. He never really wanted anything more.

Now, you might think that this is an admirable quality, and in many ways I’m inclined to agree. But the truth is that I’m just not like that: I’m always looking forward to the next thing. New faces, new places, new experiences … it’s what I need to feel alive.

And in my quest for the new and exciting, I want to be out and about as much as possible, meeting new people, visiting new countries, trying new things.

At first, I tried to drag him along with me, until I realised that he was happy as he was. He wasn’t suffering in this new adopted country where he knew no one; he was perfectly content. He was more than happy to stay home, in his own company. And I knew that that would never be enough for me.

So, with a heavy heart, I called time on the relationship.

It wasn’t easy to break up; I still loved him. And, although in infrequent contact, we remain fond of each other to this day. Ironically, for someone who never actively looked for change, he now lives in another country. I still send Christmas cards to his family, and his mum still calls me on my birthday. For many years, I wondered if I’d done the right thing.

However, we met briefly last year and for the first time, I felt no pangs of regret. Because although affection can stay rooted in the past, real life goes on. We grow and change, and people that were once on a similar path find that the road slowly, slowly diverges over time.

Who can say if our path would have divided if we’d stayed together? We’re very different people now, bound by a common affection that’s based on history more than any current assessment of each other’s character or circumstance.

But it’s nice to know that, despite everything, there’s someone out there who you remember – and who remembers you – with fondness, as The One That Got Away.

Under pressure (aka unsuitable man #5)

It’s two o’clock on a gorgeously sunny afternoon, and I’m dangling my feet in the crystal clear waters of the Adriatic sea. Yep, we’re not in Kansas any more, Toto.

After three weeks of almost incessant rain, it’s an absolute joy to be sitting in the Croatian sunshine; it’s a balmy 25 degrees and, thanks to a light sea breeze, the air is fresh and light. In fact it’s pretty idyllic, and you might even be jealous, were it not for the guy who’s warbling away next to me.

He’s a young guy, probably in his early thirties, and despite the early hour, he’s surrounded by a fug of alcohol, a plastic cup of evil-smelling liquid balanced precariously in his hand. He’s singing an English song – though not one I recognise – and I can’t help but feel it’s a bid to attract my attention. Call me anti-social, but I studiously ignore it.

In the face of my indifference, the singing gets louder, and less musically accurate. Eventually, he turns to me and says, slowly and with appropriate gravitas:

“Freddie Mercury.”

My expression must betray my lack of comprehension, because he valiantly attempts to focus and tries again.

“I… LOVE… Freddie Mercury. I am number one fan.”

Now I’ve never really understood mainland Europe’s fascination with Queen. Sure, they were a great band in their time, but in certain countries, they’re still treated with a respect bordering on religious. It’s a sentiment I struggle to understand, so I murmur something non-committal and smile encouragingly, which he immediately takes as a sign to continue.

Rats.

He tells me about his bedroom, how it’s filled with Freddie Mercury paraphernalia, and how he’s almost certainly got more Freddie merchandise than… ooh, anyone else in the world.

“Wow,” I say, obligingly. “Good for you!”

My enthusiasm gives him licence to continue, so he starts listing all the live albums in his possession. Who knew Queen’s discography was so extensive? Eventually, he grinds to a halt and leans in towards me, conspiratorially.

“When he die, Freddie Mercury tell his people to find Top 3 fans. He tell them, “Go to internet, find Top 3 fans! ” I am one of Top 3 fans.”

Again, I utter something vaguely congratulatory, but he’s not done yet.

“He give me money. Freddie Mercury, he give money to Top 3 fans. For him, not much money. Money like…. pffff! ”

Here, he makes an extravagant hand gesture to symbolise how derisory this amount was to Mr Mercury, in the face of all his millions.

“For Freddie Mercury, little money. But for me, BIG money. I live good, I no work. Lots of money.”

Crumbs, whatever he’s drinking has done for his grey cells. The guy’s off his rocker.

But now he’s trying to focus again, and his manner turns grandiose. Imperious, even.

“I take you out. We have good time.”

He looks at me expectantly, with a confident air. How could I refuse a date with Freddie Mercury’s favourite son. How could I?

But guess what? I do.

I pat his arm consolingly as turn him down, and he looks momentarily crestfallen. But before I’ve gone five paces, he’s back in his own world, wailing tunelessly.

I, meanwhile, can’t help wondering what it is that makes me such a nutter magnet. All I ask is for one normal, single male, in possession of his faculties, and all his own teeth. Is that too much to ask?

But before I even pose the question, I know the answer: apparently, it is…

A bit of skirt

Guess what? The Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym has got a girlfriend. Surprise, surprise.

I finally pulled myself up by the bootstraps and confronted him (admittedly by email) and he confessed that he has indeed got a girlfriend. But they’re splitting up so he doesn’t feel he’s behaved badly… blablabla …

Whether this is the truth or a conveniently concocted fairytale is of no interest to me. Either way, he’s out of the window as far as romantic liaisons are concerned. And I’m back to square one.

Anyway, today my head’s full of other things: I’m in London for a business meeting, it’s rush hour on the tube and I’ve got my face smushed into the back of the world’s tallest man.

Someone’s briefcase is wedged firmly in my ribs and, behind me, a screaming sproglet administers repeated kicks to my calves as an expression of his or her disgust at London’s finest method of transport.

By the time we get to Leicester Square, I can take it no more, and I hop off. I’ve got time to kill and I’d rather walk back to Kings Cross than spend another minute defending my poor, battered body against the fearsome onslaught of rush-hour commuters.

On the street, there’s a light, misty rain and I enjoy the changing scenery: the tacky glitz of Shaftesbury Avenue; the genteel streets of Bloomsbury; and the little oases of calm in Russell Square and Cartwright Gardens. All too soon, I’m at Euston Road, with the gothic majesty of St Pancras towering above me.

St Pancras is one of my favourite buildings. Not so long ago, I read an article about its renovation and conversion into sumptuous five star lodgings, and ever since I’ve fancied taking afternoon tea there. (It’d have to be afternoon tea, as I surely couldn’t afford to stay.) They call it ‘the cathedral of railways’ and really, it’s no exaggeration.

I’m still pondering its fabulousness as I wander into Kings Cross.

It’s not too crowded now, and I find a seat without much difficulty. Sinking gratefully onto the chair, I’m more than happy to get my bag off my shoulders; my laptop makes it feel pretty heavy after a while. It seems quite warm in here after the chill air outside, so I stand to take my coat off.

As I unbutton my jacket, something white catches my eye. It’s the lining of my dress, which isn’t usually on view. But it’s making an appearance today, thanks to the friction created by the synthetic fabric of my dress and the synthetic lining of my trench coat, which have conspired to make my dress shimmy slowly upwards.

My hemline is now around my waist.

And I’m flashing my underskirts to all and sundry.

An old Jamaican guy opposite me raises his eyebrows, and stops sucking on his Cornish pasty just long enough to smirk, “That’s a great look you got there, girl!” before breaking into wheezy laughter.

Mortified – AGAIN – I pull my skirt down. As if flashing my knickers once in a month wasn’t enough.

I’m almost glad when a girl walks by and shoves a leaflet into my hand. At least it’s something I can make myself interested in while the redness fades from my cheeks. Until I look at it more closely…

“eHarmony Dating”, it reads. “Find the perfect match for you!”

I look at it in exasperation. There are no words. Really. No words at all…

A darkly intriguing disappointment

So it turns out the Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym has a girlfriend.

Of course he has. Of course.

I learn this in passing during a casual conversation with mutual friends. Luckily, not because I asked, but because they happened to use his name in conjunction with another – female – name several times. Naturally, I don’t say a thing, but I think back on our online chats and quietly wonder if there’s any way I could have misread his words.

In the last few days, we’ve spent hours online, so when I get home I re-read everything, wondering if I’ve been seeing something that wasn’t there.

I see all the kisses, all the flirtatious comments, the suggestions of places to go together… and I don’t think I was wrong to read it as I did. Which makes me wonder: what hope is there of finding a decent man if even the nice guys (and our few mutual friends routinely refer to the DIMFTG as “a really nice guy”) are this disloyal?

What’s even worse is that the DIMFTG surely tells himself there’s nothing wrong with his behaviour. After all, he’s not done anything improper: just messaged a friend, maybe gone out with her for a coffee a few times.

But I wonder how he’d feel if his girlfriend were to read our correspondence? Because I think that level of friendship and intimacy would make any girl feel uncomfortable.

And even though I’ve never met this woman, I feel as I’ve let her down.

This variance in perspective seems to be a fundamental difference between men and women. I can’t tell you the amount of men I’ve met … at parties, in bars, on the street … who’ve been all too happy chatting and flirting – even asking for my phone number – when all the time they’ve got a girlfriend.

Of course, there are plenty of men who are completely honest and completely faithful, but I’ve still heard innumerable sob stories, of the “my girlfriend doesn’t understand me” variety.

This kind of man makes me want to shake them by the shoulders whilst yelling, “Oh, please! Spare me!”

After all, nobody’s forcing you to be in a relationship, and if it’s not right, then change it; either work on it to make it better or get out. Don’t sit there whining about it to someone you’ve just met in a bar. It’s hard to tell who these men have least respect for: me, their girlfriend or themselves.

But anyway, the DIMFTG’s girlfriend has nothing to fear. In this respect, I’m 100% a girls’ girl: no matter how charming the man may be, I’m not about to collude with him in his disloyalty. Because nobody deserves to be cheated on or whined about behind their back … and also because I hope that if I’m ever in a similar situation, that girl will do the same for me.

Mind you, the way things are going, the chances of finding myself in any sort of romantic situation are looking increasingly slim. Even the sexy barista has found himself a girlfriend – oh yes, indeed – and here I am, still waiting for my frog prince.

Since all other avenues have failed me, there’s only one thing for it: I’m going to start a Blue Peter appeal.

Somebody, somewhere must know a single man of decent character, between the ages of 30 and 40, with all his own teeth. Surely it’s not that much to ask? (If he can string a sentence together without using the word ‘LOL’ then so much the better.)

Dear friends, if you know of someone who fits this description, parcel him up and send him over NOW. Your actions can make a difference; your actions can make the world a better place.

Your actions can save me from a life of knitting doilies and a subscription to ‘Cat Lovers Weekly’.

Act now. Please. Act now.

Caged birds and locked bicycles

It’s been a funny sort of day.

It starts with a sun-filled cycle ride, during which I breathe the tepid (if slightly petrol-tainted) air, and marvel at the trees, which are currently filled with such glorious blossom that it makes your heart sing.

As usual, I drop into the coffee shop for my morning fix, and it’s only as the sexy barista hands me my espresso that I realise I’ve forgotten my purse. Blushing, I explain my predicament, and he gallantly waves a dismissive hand as I babble my excuses amid promises to pay tomorrow. But of course, no purse means no lunch.

Since I’m on a tight deadline work-wise, I resolve to toil for as long as my stomach can take it, and it’s nearly three o’clock when I finally decide to cycle home for some sustenance.

Which is when I find that some genius has locked their bike to mine.

And with no money, I can’t even get the bus home.

I leave a note for the mystery bike locker, berating them for their inattention and asking them to notify me when my bike is released. Then, sighing, I join the serpentine queue at the bank. After 20 minutes in line, I manage to answer enough questions to persuade them of my identity and finally emerge victorious, triumphantly clutching a tenner that covers my lunch and my bus fare.

By the time I arrive home, several precious hours have flown by, and my deadline is looming large.
I’m working frantically when my phone pings to announce the arrival of a text from an unknown number.

“Wait a minute, that’s not how karma works,” it says.

Despite the somewhat oblique message, I assume it’s from the mystery bike locker.

“Yeh,” I reply, “karma shouldn’t keep good people from their lunch! Does that mean my bike is no longer captive? Thank you if so…”

If I’m honest, I curse a bit under my breath, because although I’m glad my bike is now free, the message has reminded me that it’s situated a good 40 minute walk from my present location. I’m still considering my options when the phone pings again.

“Yes I have unchained you. Some birds shouldn’t be left caged. I’m sorry, I should apologise to you. I was in a very hungover state when I cycled to work this morning. Finding your note was a very unexpected experience for me. I didn’t realise I was capable of such stupidity. Once again, sorry for locking you up like that. I believe in karma and I shall seek to restore the balance by locking somebody up to give them joy rather than annoyance.”

I look at the message, slightly nonplussed. Although its content is a tad pert, I suppose that an answer is required.

“Well, good luck with that,” I write. “Unfortunately, I had to get the bus home cos I had no more time. Pls give my bike my best wishes and tell it I’ll be back for it soon. And thanks for texting. Much appreciated…”

So, should I walk back into town, take the bus, or what?

Ping! goes my phone.

“Yup. And you too for writing that note and replying. The world doesn’t seem so cold today!”

Ping!

“You know what?”

Ping!

“I wanna get to know you”

You’re joking, right? I know I pride myself on my sophisticated style and innate joie de vivre, but I’m not sure I’ve managed to convey all that in 140 characters …

Ping!

“I got a girlfriend though so I kinda can’t”

At least you’re honest.

Ping!

“Regardless of your sex or relationship status”

Well, of course. I’m 87 years old and I’ve got no teeth. Still interested?

Ping!

“I feel like a caged bird”

Naturally, I’m grateful that the mystery bike locker took the time to apologise, and even more grateful that he’s refrained from using “LOL” anywhere in his correspondence, but I can’t help laughing at this turn of events.

I eye my phone suspiciously, but it remains resolutely silent. Confident that the textual avalanche has halted, I compose a response to my unsuitable suitor.

“Hmmm. A caged bird? Or perhaps a locked bicycle?”

After a few moments, my phone pings again. My would-be paramour is succinct in his reply. I smile as I read his text, composed of just two words:

“How ironic.”

Ping!

Another message arrives, but this time it’s the Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym.

“Got time for a chat?” he says.

We spend an hour online, messaging each other about everything and nothing, and this time I get a total of nine kisses … which even a romantic ignoramus like me would take as a sign that he’s interested … right?

Flirty friends and predatory pumas

Every single has a Flirty Friend. You know the one: it’s the guy or girl with whom you have fabulous chemistry but – for whatever reason – you know they couldn’t/wouldn’t/shouldn’t ever be anything more than a mate.

In my case, the obvious candidate for this title is The Young Swede: he’s sexy, smart and incredibly good fun, and the hours fly by in his company. Whenever we get together we flirt outrageously … but the ten-year age gap means that anything more than friendship could only be classed as folly. In another lifetime, I’ll be five years younger and he’ll be five years older and we’ll live happily ever after. But for now, he’s Flirty Friend #1.

But there is also Flirty Friend #2.

This time it’s distance (and a good dose of common sense) that keeps us apart, but the Peruvian Puma can always be relied upon to lift my spirits with coquettish conversation and lots of improper innuendo.

Dark, handsome and dangerous, I know that if we ever got together, the Peruvian Puma would drive me crazy with his fecklessness – and probably break my heart into the bargain. But as a Flirty Friend he’s second to none.

The majority of our friendship has been carried out online – we’ve only met in the flesh four times – but we’ve managed to flirt, fight, fall out and kiss and make up many times over. He once stood me up when I’d travelled over 800 miles to meet him, and I’ve managed to offend his very soul with what I considered a fairly innocuous comment, but still our long-distance colloquy continues.

Whenever one of his messages pings into my inbox, I feel a frisson of excitement: a born flirt with an occasionally inopportune use of the English language, some of his comments cross the line from suggestive to scurrilous … but there’s no denying he’s darn sexy.

He’s also one of the very few people in this world who has managed to leave me speechless. And I mean REALLY speechless.

Picture the scene: it’s the evening of my birthday, and I’m getting ready to meet a few friends for pizza and a celebratory glass of wine when I get a Skype call from the PP. This in itself is quite unusual, since our correspondence is usually limited to messages and email, but of course today is different and I’m due some birthday wishes.

When he asks if I have time to talk, I truthfully say that I can chat for a few minutes, but then I have to leave or I’ll be late for dinner. In fact, I keep getting ready while we chat.

And so, I’m attending to my mascara when he starts his striptease.

Now, we’d bantered about this kind of thing in our flirty chats but – call me naïve – I’d never imagined it might actually happen. But there he is, doing a sexy dance and removing his clothes layer by layer. Wherever he is, it’s obviously quite chilly as he’s gone through about four jumpers, but before long he’s down to his undies and the application of my mascara has ground to a halt.

As he gets down to the nitty gritty, I remember myself and get back to my make-up: somehow, it seems rude to gawp, even if the show is for you and you alone. It seems, however, that this is the wrong response. In fact, he gets a bit tetchy, gathering his clothes around him and growling, “OK, show’s over!”

Somewhat nonplussed, I thank him politely, he wishes me a happy birthday and we hang up. As I run out of the door towards my dinner date, I finally burst out laughing – not so much at the notion of my birthday striptease, as much as my terribly British response and the smudge of mascara that’s halfway down my cheek.

Yep, there’s no doubt about it, he’s one wild cat. And it’s a good thing he’s on the other side of the world because if he were here, that Peruvian Puma would eat me alive.

Textual frustration

OK, so if a guy texts you all the time, does it necessarily mean he’s interested?

I only ask because I’ve struck up a textual relationship with a Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym but – as usual – my general stupidity with people of the male persuasion means I have no clue if he’s just being friendly… or not.

It started out with polite arrangements for an event we were both attending. From there, we progressed to coffee dates, and now we’re embroiled in long and daft text conversations once or twice a day. He texts me to comment on the weather, to tell me where he is and, of course, to invite me for coffee. Occasionally, he adds kisses.

When we meet, however, the conversation is strictly platonic; there’s no attempt at intimacy or, it has to be said, flirtation. Yet we’ve exchanged over 150 texts in two weeks.

A friend who caught us supping coffee in the park dedicated a generous amount of time to nudging and winking when we subsequently met up, but that’s because my friends are unaccustomed to seeing me alone with any male who hasn’t designated me an Honorary Sister.

No, there’s nothing remotely nudge-worthy about it. And that’s what I find a little perplexing. I’d be perfectly inclined to assume that the DIMFTG is just a mate, but my girlfriends insist that guys only get that text-happy with ladies they like.

If they’re right, I’m more emotionally stupid than I thought.

It’s not that the DIMFTG isn’t attractive – he’s a perfectly charming and handsome man. In fact, being tall(ish), dark and handsome, he’s pretty much exactly my type. Incredibly, he’s neither under the age of 25 nor over the age of 55; in fact, he’s more or less my age. And he appears to have all his own teeth. So I wouldn’t be totally impervious to any romantic approach, should he be keen to chance his arm. I just haven’t a clue if he’s remotely interested in me – or indeed, in ladies in general.

This total inability to read 21st century mating signals is surely a contributing factor to my single status. Basically, unless a guy is wearing a t-shirt declaring his intentions, I can’t believe he finds me attractive.

And even if he is wearing the t-shirt, I’d assume he was addressing someone else.

Should any guy want to try his luck with me, he’d better be bloody direct: subtle hints and sideways glances run off me like rainwater off a waxed weasel.

The indecently direct approach – snog first, chat later – at least had the dual benefit of unmistakably declaring intent, without giving me time for contemplation. But it’s certainly not for everybody. And I suspect that it can only really be attempted after a vodka party.

Anyway, the DIMFTG is very pleasant company, so I’m not too worried either way. If he’s not interested, I’ve got a great mate. And if he is… expect to hear about it very soon.