Cupid gets his bum into gear

Sometimes, you have to smile at fate. Especially when fate’s smiling at you.

To be honest, the day had started pretty badly: I’d just found out that The One I Almost Married is about to become a daddy – which provoked mixed feelings, to say the least.

Actually, to say mixed feelings is a bit of a lie. It mostly provoked just one feeling: a tragic, wailing sentiment of, “Waaaaaahhhhhhhhh! Not fair!!!” Childish, I know, but sometimes you have to give way to your inner toddler and just let it grizzle.

In fact, I sniffle and sob intermittently for a good couple of hours. Even when I stop, I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself: it seems so unfair that someone who didn’t particularly want children should be on the road to domestic bliss, when I’m still all on my lonesome. In short, I’m miffed that he’s happier than I am.

As I think this, I realise what a big baby I’m being.

Sure, he’s got something I’d like, but then so have plenty of other people. It’s not the end of the world. In fact, the only thing that’s making me unhappy here is my own good self. I can choose to wallow in my self-pity, or I can choose to look on the bright side.

I take a moment to reflect.

The One I Almost Married had a fairly low tolerance level for troublesome noise, and also a reasonably short temper. I picture him holding a screaming child…

… and suddenly, something changes inside of me. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a tragedy. It feels like a lucky escape.

I hold on to that thought before it can get away and I decide that tonight’s going to be a celebration. I’m going to hit the town and paint it all the colours of the rainbow! My mood is buoyant and I’m ready for a party, so I put on my sexiest dress, my slinkiest heels and a generous squoosh of my favourite feelgood scent.

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I am radiant, and this town isn’t big enough to hold me.

I make a couple of calls, and before long, a taxi arrives. I make it to the station with moments to spare, and tearing down the platform, I jump on the train; I’m in London within the hour.

As I push through the crowded bar, looking for my friends, my spirits are high and my soul is sparkling. Everyone’s in a good mood, the music is great, and there’s plenty of animated banter. The Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym texts to ask where I am, but I’m fed up of the lack of progress in that corner, so I fire off a quick reply then switch off my phone.

The group is large, and there are a few people I don’t know. I start introducing myself, but as I offer my hand to a particularly handsome guy in a dark red shirt, my friends start laughing.

“You don’t recognise him, do you?”

I look harder. Oh my goodness! No wonder I didn’t recognise him!

In our uni days, this guy was chubby, spotty and wore clothes three sizes too big for him. He was always a nice guy, but now he’s lost the chubbiness of youth and is looking pretty sharp. In fact, he’s lean, broad shouldered and sartorially splendid.

Uni Boy has really grown up.

Laughing, I apologise and we start to catch up on the news; it’s been over a decade, so there’s plenty to say. He tells me about his travels, his job, who he’s still in touch with, who’s got kids and who married who. He compliments me on my outfit and I tell him he’s looking pretty good, too.

Around us, the conversation flows, drinks are bought and passed around … and still we keep talking. The volume in the bar increases; everyone is shouting and laughing, so we shout to hear ourselves above the din.

And then, something miraculous happens.

I can’t actually see the cherubim and seraphim hanging round, but I’m sure they must be there. Because one minute Uni Boy and I are chatting casually, the next we’re kissing and laughing and kissing some more.

The thought of kissing him had never even crossed my mind before, but now excitement is fizzing inside me like shaken champagne. Who knew it would be so much fun? In fact, it’s so much fun that we talk and laugh (and kiss) until four o’clock in the morning. Giddy with excitement and drunk on his kisses, I’m as content as a cat on a radiator.

I may have berated his arrow-slinging in the past, but on this occasion I take a moment to send a silent thank you Cupid and his erratic archery. For once, he’s right on time.

I might not have a baby and a ready-made family waiting for me at home, but as consolation prizes go, I think I got one of the best.

Strong liquor and a stunned silence

It’s my last evening in Croatia, and I’m dedicating it to the humungous portion of pašticada that’s sitting in front of me: two thumping great slices of beef, marinaded for two days in red wine, served in a deliciously thick gravy with a small mountain of gnocchi-like dumplings. Delicious!

After 20 minutes of committed chomping, I’ve barely scratched the surface of Dumpling Mountain, so I admit defeat and ask the waitress for a glass of šljivovica, the local firewater.

It’s doing its digestional stuff quite nicely, when the she returns with another glass. I look at her quizzically; her expression is halfway between amusement and embarrassment.

“The gentleman in the corner sent this for you.”

My eyebrows disappear into my hairline, and I’m not sure what to do. I’ve seen this sort of thing in films, but it’s never happened to me in real life. If I accept the drink, what else am I accepting? Croatians seem like reasonable people, but I’ve lived in Sicily, where saying hello to an unknown man could give him the impression that you’re desperate to have his babies. So naturally, I’m a bit wary.

We look at each other for a few moments as she holds the glass out to me.

“I… er… well… ummm… thank you,” I say, finally taking the glass.

Of course, the acceptance of the drink is swiftly followed by the arrival of my admirer … if I can call him that. Surely there’s scant little to admire: I’m dressed in hiking boots and a waterproof, and I’ve not seen a hairbrush for a week or more. Still, each to his own.

Anyway, I’m thankful that Ivo – for that is my admirer’s name – has a greater command of English than I do of Croatian. He tells me that he’s an engineer of “ship things” and that although he’s always lived in Split, he’s visited Ramsgate for work, and found it very similar to Split. (“Apart from the sun,” I’m tempted to say, but I hold my tongue.)

He smokes more than anybody I’ve ever met, and I tell him so. He shrugs.

“I don’t smoke a lot in the day,” he claims, unconvincingly. “Just at night, with a drink… you know.”

I remind him of this as he pulls out a second packet of cigarettes. He just smiles and empties his pockets onto the table: ‘normal’ ciggies, menthol, and cigarillos. Plus a spare packet of the standard smokes, just in case.

We chat about this and that, and he insists on ordering more šljivovica, which I am mindful to drink very little of. Although he seems like a nice guy, a girl on her own can never be too careful. But the evening passes very pleasantly, and we’re both surprised when the waitress tells us that we’re welcome to sit for as long as we like, but her shift is finished and would we mind paying the bill?

There’s a brief, awkward moment where he attempts to pay for my dinner as well as the drinks, but I insist and press the money on him. He eventually accepts it, shrugging his shoulders in incomprehension.

It’s almost 1am, so he insists on walking me home. If I’m honest, my antennae are on red alert, as experience tells me that many a reasonable gentleman has turned unreasonable at the moment of saying goodnight.

But Ivo is the perfect gentleman. He walks me to the end of the street, and wishes me a good night.

“Maybe,” he says, “we could exchange emails. If you would like. But only if you would like.”

So we do, then we shake hands politely and he’s gone.

Wow.

Although I could never be with a guy who smokes like a kipper, Ivo scores pretty highly on the gentleman scale. Plus he’s over 25 and below 55.

For once, I’m completely and utterly lost for words.

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…

And now for something completely different…

So, I went for coffee with the Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym and of course it was very pleasant, as always. He’d even brought me a present from his recent trip home. Charming, no?

We sit for two coffees, one after the other, chatting about this and that, with no particular aim or direction. It’s all very civilised.

We’ve got the platonic nature of our friendship down to a fine art now. There is absolutely no flirtation in our meetings. None whatsoever. Which on the one hand is good, as it makes me feel better about the whole thing. But on the other hand … what’s the point? Until he’s firmly and incontrovertibly single, this friendship isn’t going anywhere.

Back at my desk, I’m flicking idly through a newsletter, pondering the cruel twist of fate that presents me with a man who’s tall(ish), dark and handsome; has all his own teeth; has never used a ‘LOL’ in all our correspondence; is intelligent, funny, interested in me AND Body Combat … but who fails on the one most important criterion: that of being 100% single.

If I didn’t laugh, I’d cry.

Still, I’m thinking that as pleasant as our little meet-ups are, it’s probably time to look elsewhere. Sitting here cursing the fates is just wasting time. Maybe I should get started on my action plan – start working out how to meet more single men, for a start.

I’m still thinking about it when a small news article catches my eye:

“Would you like the chance to participate in a unique television programme looking at how relationships are formed and what it takes to truly connect with someone? This summer, we’re looking for single women who believe it’s time for a fresh start in their search for someone special. For more information please email us with your name, age and contact details.”

Well, what the heck, eh? Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I rattle off a quick email, briefly outlining my hopeless situation, obediently tacking contact details to the end of the message.

Not 15 minutes later, the phone rings. It’s a chatty young lady, wanting to know more about me and my relationship history. We go through the drought of the last two years, touching on my ‘under 25, over 55’ niche and the brief interlude with The Young Swede. We mention The One I Almost Married and the Italian Stallion (I’ve never really mentioned him before; perhaps I will one day…).

She tells me that the programme involves three women living in a very nice house for eight weeks and meeting up to 100 men.

100 men!!!!

“It’s not like a dating show,” she tells me, “it’s more about how relationships develop.”

Hmmm.

At the end of the conversation, she thanks me for my time, and asks me to send her a couple of photos, “just so that we can put a face to the name when I present you to my director”.

I dig out the least unflattering mugshots I can find and send them off before I can change my mind. It sounds like a bit of a barmy idea, but it could, I think, be a lot of fun.

That evening, I go for coffee with a male friend, and I tell him about it all.

“Oh, jeez!” he says, “that sounds hellish, doesn’t it?!”

Does it? I thought it sounded like fun.

“Well, of course!” he exclaims. “You know what this kind of programme’s like…”

To be honest, I sort of do. But since I don’t own a TV, perhaps I also sort of don’t.

In any case, I’m sure his perspective (mid-twenties, plenty of fish in the sea) is quite different from mine (mid-thirties, aaarrrrrggggggggghhh!!!).

And besides, I’ve tried and failed with all the usual methods of finding a man. So, what the heck. I reckon it must be time for something completely different…

A grey sky and a heavy heart

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I really want to lose weight.”

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

“I want to run a marathon.”

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

Hogwash. Utter, utter hogwash.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still bloody searching

A friend forwards me the link to an article: The 10 Best Places to Meet a Man.

“Saw this and thought of you,” she writes.

Ever game, I click on the link. It’s an American article, so I expect there to be a few cultural differences, but … fine, let’s read it anyway. Who knows, perhaps there are swathes of hitherto inaccessible menfolk, just waiting for me to read this article and seek them out.

So, let’s see … where should I be looking for my Prince Charming?

1. Men’s clothing store
Studies show less than 15% of men buy clothes online, therefore, it is reasonable to think that a men’s store would be a good choice.

Well, yes, but what do I do in a men’s clothing store? There’s only so long you can drift idly round the trouser section, vaguely thumbing the fabric. Plus, what studies don’t show is that 80% of the guys shopping instore are doing so with their designated lady. And anyway, won’t any guys in there assume that I’m shopping for my man at home? Why else would I be in a men’s clothes shop?

Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough, but I’ve NEVER picked up a man in a clothes shop. Ever.

2. Interstate train
I have personally witnessed a gold mine of men in my state-to-state excursions, all handing out business cards like people handing out free fried chicken at the shopping mall food court.

And herein cultural difference number one: we Brits are notoriously reluctant to speak to strangers unless it’s absolutely necessary. Besides, I only really take the train to London, and that’s full of financial whizz-kids barking self-importantly into their mobile phone. I can just imagine the reaction if I tried to start up a flirty little conversation with one of them…

3. Online dating sites

Hold it right there. Been there, done that. Ran away.

4. At the gym

Setting aside the debacle of the Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym for just a moment, I should probably mention that the photo accompanying this entry is of a hot-to-trot guy straining to press what’s no doubt an impressive weight on some machine, while a simpering female stands by showing her admiration, her pert bosom just inches from our heroic gym-goer’s nose. Um … next!

5. The Apple store

Oh, please.

6. High-end supermarkets
Anyone spending that much money on groceries is serious about their health and he can probably cook!

I concur. Sadly, I can’t afford to shop there. And I believe you can be arrested for loitering.

7. Annual events
This one is simply about math, a big event means big attendance.

Aha! Now this one I like. I just need an invite. Offers, please…

8. Facebook

??!!

9. An educational setting
Let’s face it, a smart man is a sexy man…

I couldn’t agree more. But in my time I’ve attended language classes, fitness classes, dance classes, business classes – you name it. And every time I’ve met some fabulous girls. But never once a single guy below pensionable age.

10. A volunteer project
When we volunteer, we dedicate our time towards our passions and values. There is no better qualifier to meet “Mr. Right” than our values.

Hold on. Does that last sentence even make sense? Anyhow, in principle it’s not a bad idea, but I must admit I was looking for a quick-fix solution, rather than a long-term investment of time that I don’t really have. My bad.

To be honest, although this sort of article is well-meaning, it just sets you up to fail. If you’re going to meet the love of your life in a supermarket, it’s surely going to be by chance, not by design. You can’t tip the hand of fate by hanging out in the sportswear section, because “logic” says that’s where all the hot, sporty men are hanging out, too.

And you can hang around the Apple store all you like but you’re more likely to arouse the suspicion of the staff than meet the man of your dreams.

Anyway, surely what I need is a copy of The 10 Best Places to Meet a Woman. Once I know where the guys are searching, it’ll be a cinch to go where the hunters hunt…

Hmmm. I’d like to be convinced, but if I’m honest, I’ve got more faith in getting a t-shirt printed.

“Single and searching” – here I come.

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…

Snot

When I’m full of a cold – tired, grumpy and a just a little bit emotional – that’s when I really miss being coupled up.

Since waking up with a sore throat and snuffly nose this morning, I’m feeling a bit sorry for myself. It’s quite selfish of me, I know, but at times like these I just want someone to give me a hug, smooth my hair, make me a cuppa and pass the aspirin.

Naturally, I’m not just after a nursemaid; there are – obviously – other moments when I miss having a mate. But somehow being poorly makes me want to be cosseted by someone who loves me and still wants to cuddle me even if my nose is red and I’m wheezing like a pair of broken bellows. Someone apart from my mum, that is.

Of course, I’ve got plenty of kind-hearted friends who’d be more than happy to indulge me in a bit of meals-on-wheels. But unless I’m at death’s door, availing them of their services just feels a bit like taking advantage, whereas with your other half, it’s pretty much an inalienable right.

Beyond that, you can snuggle up to your companion in a way that’s quite likely to alarm all but your closest cohorts: I take great pleasure in leeching body heat from more thermically charged partners, but it’s a benefit that friends tend to bestow less readily.

Anyway, today I’ve spent almost the whole day in bed in the company of my hot water bottle, feeling slightly tragic.

If I’m honest, I’m still a bit miffed about the Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym. Not only because I really rather liked him, but also because the whole situation is yet more proof of my abysmal judge of character: I really thought he was one of the good guys.

However, after speaking to a friend, I’m wondering if I’ve misjudged him. After all, I’ve known him for more than six months, and there’s never been mention of a girlfriend in all that time. Admittedly, we’ve never been out at night, but we’ve been for extended coffees that have lasted for hours on various lazy Sunday afternoons.

“So,” says my dear, wise friend. “What’s the evidence for him having a girlfriend?”

“Um…well…” I mutter. “They mentioned him and this girl in the same sentence, like… three times. And one of those times was about him taking her somewhere abroad. So…”

“So really, you haven’t got much evidence, have you?” says Friend. “She could be his housemate for all you know.”

I consider this. If I’ve got my rose-tinted glasses on, then yes, she could be his housemate. But I thought he said he lived alone … didn’t he? Oh, rats! I just can’t remember.

“Or his sister.”

OK, OK. I admit my evidence is flimsy.

“For goodness’ sake!” says Friend. “Why don’t you just ask him?!”

Ask him. Yes.

I could ask him. I suppose I could. But that’s like admitting that I care whether or not she’s his girlfriend. And also admitting that I’m interested.

And if by any chance he is interested, and he hasn’t got a girlfriend, he might think I’m asking because I’m not interested.

“What?!! What kind of logic is THAT?!” splutters Friend. “You know what? You think too much. It’s no wonder you’re still bloody single!”

Chastened, I hang my head.

But I have to admit … he may have a point.

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?