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…

Istanbul mon amour

Istanbul has been good for my soul.

Arriving at dawn and watching the morning light spread gold across the water, I can’t help but feel … soothed.

Later, I’ll be assaulted by the sights and sounds of the Spice Market in full swing: stallholders offering a morsel of rose-scented lokum or sticky, nutty kadayif; simit sellers plying their wares, the sesame-coated rings piled high upon their heads; eager trinket sellers insistently offering the best, the cheapest, the finest quality baubles…

… but for now, I’m enjoying the cool peace of the morning, punctuated only by the greedy screech of the fish-hungry gulls that swoop and wheel around the half-empty ferry.

For once, I’m not travelling alone, and my (male) travel buddy provides easy-going company, as well as welcome protection from the unwelcome attentions a solo blonde tourist typically attracts.

We spend a couple of days eagerly pacing the length and breadth of Istanbul. But as the week wears on, the temperature rises steadily and soon we’re content to laze in a shady corner with our noses in our respective books or drinking endless glasses of sweet, black tea in our favourite hangout – a leafy outdoor café overlooking the Bosphorus.

With tea in hand, and a light breeze gently ruffling my hair, I feel truly content.

Although it’s blazing hot and I’ve spent most of my time looking pink, sweaty and unappealing, the change of scene has done me good. I can’t say I’ve forgotten all about Uni Boy and my sudden demotion from the position of part-time squeeze, but I’m certainly able to view things in a more positive light.

Travelling always helps me to put things in perspective. With my mind occupied by new sights, sounds and smells, there’s no space for unhappy thoughts or mournful musings. And I can’t help but wonder if contentment breeds contentment, because when I check my email, I’ve got several affectionate messages from Uni Boy.

Puzzling, but not unpleasant.

On the last night, my travel buddy sits on the terrace with a glass of wine while I go scouting for food. It’s my first solo venture, and I soon get a taste of the luxurious protection I’ve been enjoying simply by being in male company: I’ve barely walked 500 metres, but I’ve been approached, petted and flattered by three separate gentlemen, all eager to show me their carpets, their plates, their various assorted trinkets.

Finally, I make it to my destination. As I wait for my food, the cashier flashes me his most winning smile.

“How many people are in Istanbul?”

At first, I think he’s quizzing me on my local knowledge, but then I realise he’s asking me if I’m travelling alone.

“Two,” I reply, holding two fingers aloft, for clarity.

“Where is my friend?” he asks, looking momentarily downcast.

“My friend is at home, waiting for me,” I say.

He beams.

“When my friend is sleep, you come here!” he says, triumphantly.

I smile politely as I decline his kind offer, and again as he attempts to snare my affections with a free orange juice. Insistently waving away his suggestions of a midnight tryst, I finally make it onto the street, where I fix my gaze on the pavement as I navigate the various hawkers and traders vying for my attention.

Back on the terrace, the food is soon devoured and I decide to check my email. Before I know it, I’m chatting to Uni Boy, and we’re flirting outrageously.

“When are you back?” he writes.

“Tomorrow evening, late,” I reply.

“See you then?” he says.

I hesitate. I know I should say no. But the devil on my shoulder is shouting louder than the angel, and my tragic addiction to hugs and kisses needs feeding. In truth, my internal struggle lasts … ooh, about five seconds.

“Sure,” I reply, berating myself only slightly. “See you then.”

And I smile.

Eeyore stole my mojo

I feel terrible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enough!

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

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

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

Ladies and gentlemen, Eeyore has left the building.

Gloom … and the return of the Peruvian Puma

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

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

“Hey you!” I write. “How’s things?”

Surprisingly, I get an almost instant response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again, a near instant response.

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

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

“So you are dumping me …” I write.

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

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

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

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

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

Everything’s always alright.

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

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

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

“Hey, sexy! What’s cooking?”

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

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

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

“Hit me with it, wild thing!”

And you know what? He does.

On my own again

Dinner with The Darkly Intriguing was … odd. He turned up in his sweaty gym kit, for starters. Now I know we were going for a fairly humble plate of dim sum, but who does that?

Maybe it’s just my suspicious mind, but it smacked of a cover-up: turning up an hour late in your smarts is probably harder to explain to your ex. Or not-so-ex, whichever she may be. Anyway, my lack of enthusiasm must have been palpable, because we’ve not been in touch since. Oh well.

Uni Boy is also out of the picture. Although he’s not departed definitively, he’s gone for a recce of his new turf. By the time he gets back, I’ll be away. So, depending on when he gets the nod from his superiors, we may – or may not – see each other again. Sniff.

I know I shouldn’t mind too much. After all, it was only ever a temporary arrangement. But when you’re snuggling up to someone several nights a week, it’s only natural that you’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Of course, I expect no such sentimentality from him. Most guys have the ability to detach their emotions, taking the situation at face value. It’s an admirable trait, but one which I’ve never quite mastered. I have trouble throwing out an old toothbrush.

Go figure.

Anyway, I couldn’t help getting accustomed to kisses and cuddles and all the other benefits that come with sharing a bed. In intimate moments, he talks of a future with me in it, but I’m under no illusions. And rightly so: five minutes later he’s making plans for world domination and I’m not even a footnote.

But that’s fine. It’s all fine. Everything’s always fine.

I think that’s my new mantra: everything’s always fine. Love comes and love goes; attraction swirls around and fades away; promising trysts evaporate into thin air. I don’t like it, but it’s OK. The cut of each disappointment is keen at first, but there’s no loss that isn’t dulled by time. Even the times I thought my heart would break … well, here I am, heart (more or less) in one piece. Sometimes I think that if anyone ever decided to stick around, I’d be scared out of my wits.

I do feel sad, though, that I might never find someone to share my life with. Think of all that love and affection, just going to waste.

Maybe I should get a cat.

Anyway, there’s no point moping about it. Just as faint heart never won fair lady, so morose mug never charmed marvellous man. And that’s a fact.

Besides, I’ve got plenty of blessings just waiting to be counted: it’s a glorious day, the sun is shining and I’ve finished all my work … which can mean only one thing: a cycle ride by the river and iced coffee in the park. It’s Body Combat tonight, as well.

Sun, cycle, coffee and combat. I mean really, who could ask for more?

Getting up to speed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Immediately, a box pops up on my screen.

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

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

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

“Dinner post-gym tomorrow?”

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

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

I’m not in love

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

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

Who knew I was a Desperate Housewife manquée?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coffee?” says the message in my inbox.

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

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.

Here comes the sun

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … the sun!

Yes, after weeks and weeks and weeks of desperately damp dullness, we’ve finally been given the chance to bask in glorious, golden waves of warmth. And about time, too: any more rain and I’d have put Noah on speed dial.

Yup, there’s little more cheering than a few rays of sun. It’s fascinating to watch how we pasty Brits unfurl like flowers, turning our faces to the unfamiliar glow and exposing as much milky-white flesh as possible. What’s more, we start to smile. Even at strangers. Weird, no?

Although I’ll pretty much talk to anyone, at any time, I’m just as sun-crazed as the next (wo)man. It’s no exaggeration to say that I run on solar power: full of energy and life in the scant summer months, I struggle my way through the gloom the rest of the time. So when the sun comes out, I’m as happy as a pig in poop.

At the moment, though, my energy’s on turbo boost because – at the risk of being a soppy old stick – not only is the sun shining (however temporarily), I’m also being showered with affection on a daily basis. Who could ask for more?

But even though it’s utter bliss to be customarily kissed and cuddled, if I’m honest, the benefits are more than just snog-related: this little adventure has worked wonders for my self-esteem.

Whilst I know this is only a temporary arrangement, it’s convinced me that I’m not on the scrap heap; that there is someone who finds me loveable and is happy to pass extended periods of time in my company. (And thank goodness for that, ‘cause for a while there, I was starting to lose hope…)

It’s nice to take someone else’s feeling into consideration – from what to have for dinner to where to go on the weekend, it’s all a bit more fun when you’re thinking for two.

I’ve discovered I like having someone to care for; I enjoy learning new preferences and predilections, and my diet’s improved because I’m cooking a proper meal rather than hoovering a sandwich on the hoof.

In short, what’s not to like?

Best of all, I’m not even fearful of The End, because there’s a pre-defined cut-off point that’s not dependent on how appealing or attentive I am. It’s out of my hands.

Nothing I can say or do will change the circumstances, so this little bubble of happiness will remain intact, unsullied by future arguments and disagreements. For once, I’m not afraid of cocking it up, which means I can really relax and enjoy it.

And maybe that’s the bigger lesson for me. Maybe if I took the same carefree approach with all my relationships, maybe – just maybe – I wouldn’t be on my own right now.

Hmmm. There’s something to think about for the future. But right now I’ve got other things to think about…

If you’ll excuse me, there’s a hug with my name on it here. I don’t want to keep it waiting.

Free coffee and further flirtation

Ooh, it’s hard to open my eyes this morning.

I’m on my way to work, but my brain thinks it’s still tucked up in bed. Not even the warm air and morning sunshine can clear my head. It’s definitely time for a coffee.

I’m rummaging in my bag for my purse, when I remember the voucher I’d been given just a few days ago – a voucher for a freebie espresso in the coffee bar next door. Perfect.

More than ready for my caffeine fix, I breeze into the bar to claim my spoils. The barista (no, not the Sexy Barista) is about to set the coffee machine in motion, when his colleague says to him, in Italian,

“Has she filled it in?”

Now, if you don’t speak Italian, you might not know that ‘she’ is also the polite form of ‘you’. So his question could mean, “Has she filled it in?” or, “Have you filled it in?”

Even though it’s quite clear that he was addressing his colleague, not me, his question was quite brusquely phrased, so Barista No. 2 blushes when I reply – in Italian – that no, I haven’t filled it in… and what exactly was I supposed to be filling in, anyway?

“Ah … um … sorry! I didn’t mean you … I was talking to him,” he stammers. “You have to fill in your name and email address on the back of the voucher.”

I turn my voucher over. It’s completely blank.

Smiling apologetically, he hands me another voucher, which has neat little boxes for my details, and a pen.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t have you down as Italian.”

“No,” I reply. “That’s because I’m not.”

He looks confused for a moment, then recovers his composure and slips into flirt mode: oh, but I speak Italian so well – how come? Where am I from? Where in Italy did I live? For how long? What took me to Italy? How marvellously I speak Italian!

I can’t help but smile.

I answer all his questions as I sip my coffee, then thank them both and wish them a good day.

“Wait! Wait!” he says, as I head towards the door. “Let me give you another voucher then you’ll come again tomorrow.”

He hands it over, in flirt overdrive now, and bids me goodbye.

Thanking him, I saunter elegantly off, praying that my killer heels, the highly polished floor and my ever-ready Aura of Disaster let me get out of the door without any major mishaps. But for once, my luck holds and I make it out unscathed.

As I set off for work again my phone pings, announcing the arrival of a text message. It’s from Uni Boy, and it contains just three words:

“See you tonight?”

Suddenly I’m wide awake and there’s a spring in my step, not to mention a big, stupid grin on my face. If I were in a cartoon, there’s be songbirds around my shoulders and small, soft animals nuzzling my hand.

But, of course, this state of affairs can’t last; there has to be a fly in the ointment.

The fun and frolics with Uni Boy are on a timer that’s counting down all too quickly to a point in the very near future. Yes, in just a few short weeks, Uni Boy’s work will take him overseas, where he’ll remain for goodness knows how long.

But I refuse to think about that yet. For now, the sun’s out, my heart’s happy and my soul’s full of joy … I’m luxuriating in his company and I’m flipping well going to enjoy it, however long or little it lasts.