gah!!

I have made a most alarming discovery about the Australian. 


He has one of these:

Slightly creeped out now. And thinking if I do ever sleep with him, I might need to wear oven gloves.

bloody hell, what now?

Last night I went for a spot of shopping and dinner on Oxford Street with my chum D. Paris clothes being chief on the agenda (three weeks to go, and as yet, I still have a ton of stuff to sort out, loads of things to buy, an online aptitude test to complete, insurance to buy, I still can't speak basic French, and I still don't bear an uncanny resemblance to Eva Green or Marion Cotillard). But I digress.


Browsing the rails - in French Connection, funnily enough - I felt my bag vibrating with an incoming call on my mobile. I fished it out, only to see the American's name flashing up.


"D!!" I hissed. "The American!! What do I do? Do I answer it?" (why did I even ask?!)


"No!" she said, incredulously. And quite rightly. This is why I should never go anywhere unaccompanied.


So, back in the bag it went, and eventually he rang off. Didn't leave any kind of message, so I think we can safely assume he was just bored and desperate for company. Never mind - I'm sure he can find plenty of other people to go drinking on a roof with. Preferably near the edge.

Well well WELL....

Oh, this is going to be GOOD. 


This is going to be very, VERY good. 


The Pick Up Artist and I meet again! 


The friend whose birthday barbecue we met at last summer is having another birthday barbecue. And The Pick Up Artist has confirmed his attendance. 


So this is what's going to happen:


- I am going to look STUNNING.
- I will not get drunk, but remain in complete control.
- I will be sociable, friendly, and good company - to everyone else.
- Him, I shall ignore. Not in a rude way, or an obvious way, I just shall not see him.
- If by some morbid stroke of fate he does try to speak to me, I shall respond with only the bare minimum that politeness demands. Then very quickly lose interest and find something better to do. Which is basically anything.
- I have a lovely evening, and at the end of the night, perform a victory dance all the way to the station, leaving him eating my dust.


Now the only part of this I should struggle with - perhaps worryingly - will be the not getting drunk. You know what it's like, it's summer, you're in the garden, someone puts a glass of rose in your hand, and... well my antics at last year's party are sufficient illustration of that. But I am going to really really try to stay on the soft stuff. Everything else should be a doddle - I don't find him remotely attractive any more (how could I? Seriously, if you haven't read my blog entry about The Pick Up Artist , do so now). Added to the fact that I don't think I could look down on him less if I tried, I don't think I'm exactly going to be swooning.


'But K', you might ask, 'isn't this all a little immature? Didn't you two only have one date? Should this really be such a big deal to you?'. And the answers are: yes, completely / yes, we did, and / probably not, but I can hold a grudge like nobody's business. At the end of the day, I had really high hopes for this guy, and he left me feeling disappointed and momentarily worthless. But you're right - this was over a year ago, single life has come on in leaps and bounds since then, and no, in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn't matter? So what better way to illustrate that than by making it excruciatingly clear to this guy how little he matters to me? 


In fact, I think, in order to keep my resolve, and also in order that I might get a knowing little smirk on my face whenever we cross paths at this party, I should print out and keep in my wallet the following:

Ahh.... it's the gift that never stops giving. 

today, from the 'what the fuck?!' files...

Dear. Sweet. Baby. Jesus. In. The Manger.


Remember this guy? 


This guy - let's quickly recap - is someone I got on immensely well with at a party last year, had an absolutely amazing once-in-a-lifetime date with, who ended up leading me on and screwing me over for months before I finally had enough and ditched him, and who, I later found out, is a disciple of some picking-women-up guru called 'Mystery'. And he also wants a cowboy had because 'Mystery' had one. *shudders*


Anyway, today, after nearly a year, he sends me a message on Facebook, completely out of the blue. It flashed up on my iPhone when I was at lunch just now, and I almost projected my food out of my mouth and across the room with shock.


What did he want, you may ask? Well - 

Hey you,

Hope your doing well, saw this and as your an amazing photographer I thought I would forward it on :o)

'It' was basically a request from some guy at a photography agency, wanting people to cover the Pride festival in London this weekend. Which sounds alright, but I have plans already, plus, I'm not quite confident in my papping abilities yet.


But that's quite enough of that.


'Hey you'? Dearest, I'm not sure if you noticed, but we are no longer friends on Facebook. Which you would know, because you would have had to scroll through our mutual friend's list of friends to find me. This is for the simple reason that you acted like a total dick. So let's cut the chummy tone, shall we?


Hope I'm doing well? Yeah, I'm sure you do.


And - 'an amazing photographer'?? I mean thanks and everything, but for all you know about me, you may as well describe me as an amazing gymnast, or an amazing singer, or an amazing neurosurgeon (clearly I suck at all three - especially the neurosurgery). 


What a random and flimsy excuse to get in touch. 


The answer to your next question is: 'Did I fuck'.

a dry spell

Pardon my not beating about the bush (ahem), but I need to get laid.


I require a man. A man good-looking by my standards, who will be amusing company for an evening, who will be an exciting and satisfying bedfellow, and who will be perfectly happy to leave it at that. A fuck-buddy situation is fine, but just actually finding one is the first objective.


I’m bored. As, I’m sure, are you. While this year and hence this blog hasn’t been a complete desert, I freely admit I need to get off my arse and make things happen. Lately, my social life and plans for Paris have eclipsed my mission to work my way through the frogs of London, but now I’m very much feeling the need to pull my finger out.

Oh dear. The double entendres speak for themselves.

Well then, what to do? My workmate A, (who is battling his woeful way through an equally dry spell) and I were discussing our mutual frustration at lunch today, and he suggested I try looking around at my gym.

Well, it’s certainly do-able. Plenty of men go to my gym, after all, but there are two fairly significant drawbacks.

Firstly, quite a lot of men who work in my office go to that gym, and I’m not sure how keen I am to become known as the girl who weirdly and inexplicably smiles at everyone (and is therefore probably extremely desperate). The other problem is that, unlike a lot of the girls at my gym, who first of all have slightly better attire than whatever baggy ensemble I’ve thrown on, I do not breeze through my exercise sessions with a sexy flush, nary but a light mist of sweat on my glowing brow and a total absence of weird perspiration patches. In fact, I look like such a huffing, red, sweat-drenched nightmare at the gym, that to try and woo a member of the opposite sex seems to be at best, touchingly futile, at worst, a gesture of extreme self-mocking.

Another possible lead might be this cute little fruit and veg market I go to before work sometimes, and which, at least on Fridays and Saturdays, has THE hottest man working there. We had quite a giggle-filled exchange a few weeks ago, in which he was apologetically half-asleep and almost charged me £421 for six stalks of rhubarb and an onion (he pressed the wrong button on the till, I believe). I’ve been back a couple of times since, but it’s always busy. However, in the interests of being proactive, I shall go this week, and attempt to muster actual words again. I’ve already bought more strawberries than Wimbledon does in June and July.

However, the gym is the only plan I’ve got tonight (well, that and the supermarket), so I shall cast my eye over promising-looking specimens there (and actually MAKE EYE CONTACT instead of wimping out). Seriously, something will have to be done. The only naked body I’ve been in proximity to recently is that of the woman who was getting changed next to me after my gym session yesterday, and I found myself even eyeing her up.

Seriously.  


PS: In the meantime, if you have any suggestions about where to meet men, I'd love to hear your comments! 

désolé

(it’s French, it means ‘sorry’, and expect to hear a lot more annoying stuff like that from me for a while).

My darlings, I must apologise for leaving you unattended for so long. It’s neither because I have given up this whole dating lark and got me to a nunnery, or that I and some gorgeous specimen have only just emerged from betwixt the sheets (more's the pity). It’s merely because for the last few weeks, I have been having ideas...

...which translated into more ideas.

...which translated into plans.

...which translated into the rather exciting fact that I’M GOING TO PARIS!!

I’m going for a month this summer and I’m so ludicrously excited, I’ve had to limit myself to emitting only one high-pitched squeak a day (you should have heard the squeak-frenzy I emitted when I was permitted the time off work – time off work I had to beg for and write a thesis detailing why I should be allowed to have it, but I bitterly digress). 


The plan is thus:

In the mornings, I shall be studying an intensive course in French. I studied French for a few years at school, as did we all, then as soon as we chose our GCSE subjects, I ditched it for German. Not the most spiffing idea, seeing as the net result of that was ending up with a particularly frog-like boyfriend (I met him in my A-Level class), and a piddling, barely-scraped qualification in a language I can hardly speak any more. Not to mention I’ve been to Germany and put said qualification to use only once in the last decade. So all things considered, I really should have stuck with French. At the moment, I’m trying to brush up a little at home with a textbook, and it’s fairly painless so far. Then again, I haven’t tried to conjugate many verbs yet.

In the afternoons, I shall grab my new camera, my guidebook, and bum around the city. I shall visit museums, galleries, cafes, shops, wander around pretty little streets, buy yummy foods to take home, take photographs, ride bikes along the Seine, sunbathe in the parks, watch outdoor movies, and generally pretend I’m in a film. Oh, and of course, in the name of gathering useable material for this blog, meet an array of delectable Frenchmen (or at least try to...)

And in the evenings? I shall retire back to the apartment I’m renting, for dinner, drinks, and stimulating conversation with my temporary flatmate – a 27-year-old, blue-eyed, six-packed, cute-as-a-button Frenchman.

Whoops. That’s my high-pitched squeak allowance used up for the day.

umm....no.

So, this Saturday just gone, I had the long-promised drink (OK, three) with The Marine. And in a nutshell – nah.

Don’t get me wrong, he was very nice, and actually a lot nicer-looking in the flesh than I’d expected. From what I’d seen of his Facebook pictures, he looked like kind of a meathead. Then again, in the flesh, he didn’t spend quite so much time with his shirt off, flashing his tattoos and posing as if about to commence a boxing match. Swings and roundabouts.

Anyway, we met at a pub on the Northern line on Saturday night. He had a drink waiting for me (Merlot, lovely) and said I looked great. Although I think he was a little gutted that I was taller than him in my heels – ha! Oh come on, the man’s pure muscle, it’s only fair that I have some kind of physical advantage over him.

He had the ‘date jacket’ on, or what he called his ‘unlucky jacket’. As it may well be, because I really wasn’t that into him. Conversation didn’t feel as easy as it has on other dates I've had. Although I hate to use the Pick Up Artist as an example, because what I saw of him was pretty much 80 per cent showmanship, when I went out with him, the conversation didn’t falter once, and it was interesting and funny, and we went off on incredibly geeky tangents, with lots of gesticulating, slapping the table and going ‘YES! Totally!’ .. and we just ‘clicked’...as much as you can when the person opposite you is utterly deceiving you, but you get what I mean, as an example.

The Marine and I didn’t not get along, but the whole night I was very conscious of the conversation being an actual effort, instead of flowing naturally. And at the end of the day, I just didn’t fancy him. It didn’t help that the pub we were in was absolutely packed to the rafters with really quite attractive men – at least I know where my friend and fellow-frog-kisser D and I are going on our next night out!

Then, rather annoyingly, he asked me – and it may be unfair that this bothers me – why it is that I’m single. People ask me that fairly often, and it’s one of my pet hates and one of the things guaranteed to put my back straight up. Not because I’m sensitive about it – on the contrary, six months into being single, I’m really quite enjoying myself! The thing that really irks me about that question is the implication that I don’t have any say in the matter – like there’s no possible way I might actually like being single, and that I’m just waiting for some man – any man – to come along and change my Facebook status to ‘In a relationship’. It seems like such an inane thing to ask me – it’s like asking why my hair is the colour it is, or why I have size 7 feet, or why I’m right-handed.

Who knows, maybe, hypothetically speaking, it’s meant to be flattering, maybe he was genuinely astounded that someone as attractive and intelligent and articulate and kind-hearted and well-dressed, and urbane as me (well, I did say ‘hypothetical’!) couldn’t possibly be single. Surely some man must have come along and snapped me up by now? Because I can’t possibly have any influence over the matter, can I?

Grrr.

Anyway, after three glasses of Merlot for me, and a couple of beers for him, we made our way home. We got the same bus, as we live fairly close to each other. I must say that by this point, there had been no physical contact – hands on backs, legs, holding hands, kissing, at all. And it hadn’t even occurred to me, which is pretty much all I needed to know about how I felt about him, I think. I got off the bus first, thanked him for a lovely evening, gave him a kiss on the cheek, and made my way home. And as I did, I was thinking Well, he’s nice, but thank God I can go home now. It probably didn’t help that my shoes were killing me. As much as I appreciated them for giving me the height advantage, they are ludicrous.

He texted me when I got home, to check I’d got back safely, to thank me for a lovely evening, and he also said he’d like to see me again. As I wrenched the Shoes of Death off my feet, I believe I thought Whatever...let’s cross that bridge when we come to it, and sank gratefully into bed.

He texted me on Sunday, too, just asking how my day had been, and on Monday night, he texted me again, to ask the same thing, and also if I wanted to meet for dinner next week. Now I’m all for giving people a second chance – no one’s really at their relaxed best on a first date – so I said yes. He replied with something, I can’t remember. Then, about half an hour later, I got this:
To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were that keen on me or not. X

Really? Must we? It’s two days post-date, it’s late on a Monday night, and he wants to go there? That said, he does have a point. I don’t have a thing against him, and I certainly wouldn’t relegate him to Frog status, and I thought he was nice, but I didn’t feel any sparks – compared to the evening with the Frenchman, where I had to excuse myself to the Ladies, merely for the purpose of sending a text to my friend, H, the precise contents of which were, I believe: Oh. My. God.

So really, I suppose this would be a convenient opening to nip this one in the bud. But what to say? - I’m terrible with these things. And while men traditionally seem to have no apparent problem with vanishing on me, I meanwhile would prefer to be a little more gentle with people’s feelings. I can’t very well condemn people for ignoring me if I’m going to behave the same way in turn. So with that in mind, I’m trying to think of a kind but gentle way to respond to that text. Although, seeing as he sent it a day and a half ago, I’m thinking the silence may have already spoken volumes for me. 


PS: I posted this at 11:21 am. At 11:25am, my phone buzzed. It was The Marine. Hi, how's your week going? x

While I'm still loathe to resort to fuckwit behaviour, good God man, take a hint! 

In which I am reprimanding, opportunistic, and also, kind of a snob

....I AM alive! Do be patient with me, my dears. I had hoped to have tales to report from this weekend just gone, when I went on a big drunken girlie break, and was one of the few single girls there. Alas, the male specimens we encountered were not entirely my type, but in the state I was in, I don't imagine I would have been their type either!

Anyway, I’m not completely bereft of news, as this weekend, I’m (allegedly) going for the long-promised drink with The Marine . Following his rather inconsiderate means of cancelling on me last time, I sent him to purgatory for a week or so, ignoring his texts. Then, on a Saturday night a few weeks ago, I decided to thaw a little, when he texted again, asking me if I wanted to go to the cinema. Now while I obviously normally endeavour to spend my life in a perpetual state of being sociable, alert, charming, attractive and presentable (!), on this particular day I was exhausted, quasi-hungover, spotty, had minging limp hair, had spent the day running around and lugging bags about, and wanted nothing more than to have some dinner, a bath, and an early night. And if that makes me sound old, then old I be! So I thanked him, but politely declined, and then proceeded to give him a subtle but unmistakable bollocking for his lack of communication on that day we were meant to go out:

HIM: I’m really sorry it didn’t work out meeting up this week.
ME: That’s OK, it couldn’t be helped. Might have been nice if you’d let me know though. HIM: What do you mean?
Still not getting it? Do I need to use flashcards? OK.....

ME: On Weds, when you couldn’t make it, I didn’t hear a thing from you, so I didn’t know what was going on at all until it got to the end of work, and I thought: ‘right, looks like I’m going home then!’ HIM: I know, I thought I might make it, but she was really ill. ME: Oh dear, poor thing... And that was being sincere, by the way! I’m not that mean. ....Always nice to know for definite though! HIM: I know, I’m really sorry. ME: That’s OK. Bollocking over. HIM: Yay!
Ha. Always nice to reduce a member of the armed forces to their knees (like I’ve done it before(!))

So anyway, if time, tide and childhood germs do not conspire against us, I shall be meeting The Marine this Saturday for a drink. I think we’ll get on quite well, we seem to banter quite well in texts and emails, but we’ll see what happens in person. Again, and not to labour the point, but I would honestly be surprised if I fancied him. The ultra-muscly look has never done it for me (as a quick glance at all my ex-boyfriends can attest), plus I don’t find him that attractive. But you never know, do you? Meeting people is what this year’s experiment is all about.

Well, that and free dinner...

....what?? I’m skint!


In the meantime though, 'tis St Patrick's Day! To mark the occasion (since I never have done before), me and my fellow couldn't-be-less-Irish-if-we-tried chum D are heading out to an appropriately green-festooned, Guinness-serving pub somewhere in London. Might my first ever encounter with an Irish frog be in the offing? I shall report back....

re-appearances - some welcome, some not

Last night, finally, and while at dinner with my lovely friend M, I was at last paid a visit by the long-overdue men in red coats. They had Aunt Flo with them, and since the painters were in, they were on their way to celebrate Rag Week. 


You get, I’m sure, my drift.

So in conclusion – woohoo! I’d been feeling pretty chilled since failing a certain test two weeks ago, but as actual physical proof of me not being knocked up by the Frenchman was still to materialise, I was starting to wonder what was going on and – horror of horrors – contemplating taking another test. But now I don’t have to, as absolutely definitely nothing is alive in there. Grand! Completely worth the bad night’s sleep I had last night, the resultant tiredness and the fact that my belly feels like a barrage balloon.

In another and rather less welcome re-appearance, while I was wending my cheery way home, I got another text from The Marine, having quite pointedly neglected to answer the one he sent in the morning:

Hey, So .... have you any plans for the weekend, Miss K?

Yeah. Washing my f***ing hair, mate, that’s what I’m doing this weekend. 

stood up!

So in the end, I heard nothing from The Marine. Zilch. Nada. Not a word. Not even a 'sorry, can't make it.' I just timed how long it took me to type those four words - 'sorry, can't make it'. It took four seconds. 

Look, I get that his kid isn't well. I don't begrudge him that at all, and I completely understand that comes first. But FOUR SECONDS. Frankly, he could have been healing the kid with his bare hands all day, and still had time to let me know he couldn't make it.

While, on the whole, I think my parents did a pretty good job of bringing me up, I don't think I was raised to a unusually exemplary standard. I mean, I'm pretty negligible with thank-you notes, and I'm sure my table manners could use some attention. And yet I seem to have got to this grand old age, and understand that if I've made plans with someone and subsequently can't make it, I should first and foremost apologise, and let them know as early as possible in the day so they can make alternative plans. Plans which wouldn't involve almost having a screaming fit in the supermarket at 7 o'clock in the evening (well I'd planned to make myself a lovely dinner and the bastards didn't have any butternut squash).

So, as you might imagine, I was Not. Impressed. And taking into the account that I don't particularly fancy him, I was ready to do a Pick Up Artist/Frenchman-style disappearing act. Which I don't approve of, but frankly, bad behaviour deserves bad behaviour in return.

Then, this morning, I received this:

Good job we didn't meet up, **** was really ill last night, hope you have a good day x

Is he kidding me?! I mean, is he actually, honest-to-God, taking the piss out of me?

In what possible universe does he think that will do? Sending that the next day? No apology for a) standing me up and b) not saying one word to let me know he couldn't make it? 'Good job'??!!

Again, I sincerely hope the kid feels better soon, especially as I think he's back on duty next week, and it'd be horrid if he had to leave while his child is still sick. But I'm sorry, life is just too short for this crap. And given that I don't actually fancy him, I think we can consider that a decision made. Maybe I'm being draconian again, but that's just how I'm feeling. If we can thank the frogs I've encountered thus far for anything, it's that each time, they are significantly reducing the amount of patience I'm willing to have, and allowances I'm willing to make for bad behaviour.

So well done, Mr Marine. You have the immeasurable honour of being ranked alongside the Pick Up Artist and the Frenchman on the Frog list, and you get to join them at the murky bottom of the dating pond. 

While you're down there, maybe the three of you can put your pretty heads together and see if, between you, you can't figure out how to use a phone.

with apologies for the random and slightly gross picture

It’s 10:58am. It’s a lovely, slightly hazy sunny day in March. I’m sitting at my desk. I’m wearing a work/date-appropriate outfit. I have in my handbag some makeup, my toothbrush, and toothpaste (NO condoms, face wash, etc. Not this time). And next to my desk is my ready-packed gym bag. Because, you see, my evening could go either way, as The Marine isn’t sure if he can make it tonight.

*slow, drawn-out sigh*

Of course, it is actually for a good reason. He has a young child – did I mention that? - who’s a bit poorly with some bug or other. He texted me last night, very apologetically, and said he still hoped to be able to make it, he didn’t want me to think he was messing me about, and he’d even bought a new jacket for the occasion. Bless!

Well, we shall see what transpires. It’d certainly be nice to have a night off from the gym, not least because I’ve been going a bit mad with the exercises for my abs and obliques this week, and consequently now feel like I’ve been dragged into an alley and given a good kicking. But speaking of abusing my body, since I’m out for dinner and drinks with my lovely friend M tomorrow, then out for just drinks with my workmates on Friday, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to spare my liver for one more day.

Either way, I’ll be doing some degree of damage to my body tonight...  

I am...

....not dead, I promise. Merely busy, seeing friends, and, regrettably, not spending my time bedding an array of delectable men.


I shall hopefully, however,  have tales to tell on Thursday, as tomorrow night, I have my date with The Marine. Which I'm not expecting much of - as I've said, I don't think I fancy him that much - but with any luck, I shall just have a pleasant evening and, perchance, a free dinner - what? I'm skint!


Speaking of freebies I don't have to pay back, I have thrown The Frenchman once and for all back in the pond. I wasn't particularly gagging to see him again - at least not on any actual interest-in-him-as-a-person level. I confess, it was mostly the accent and the body. Bad K. But anyway, after leaving it a while after the last message he sent me, I sent a breezy reply, just asking if he'd had a nice trip with work. Didn't even suggest meeting up. This was over a week ago. And I heard .... nothing. And we all know how much I enjoy men who can't even grow a pair of balls big enough to help them give a girl a polite 'thanks but no thanks'. Yes, yes, I know it's only a week, but I have no patience to mess around. Tant pis.


Anyway, I'm sure I had a point....oh yes, the freebies. Well, since I was broke on my date with The Frenchman too (I seriously need to start scheduling my dates closer after payday), he paid for dinner. I thanked him profusely and promised to repay the favour. And now I don't have to. Woohoo!!

...........although, conversely, this does mean he couldn't bear the thought of seeing me again, even if it meant getting a free meal...

The Marine wants to go out...

.....God help me.

While checking my email on the way home from work last night (seriously, someone surgically separate me from my iPhone. I may never actually read a book again), I noticed I had an email from the scary-looking Marine, who got in contact with me last month, and who I’ve exchanged friendly words with on and off since then.

He wants to meet for a drink next week, when he’s got a week off from firing missiles, or whatever it is he gets up to.

Gah!!

Well, this should be an interesting evening.... and before you ask, no, I am not going back to his house! Although seeing as he could probably pick me up with one hand and sling me over his shoulder, if he was really quite insistent, I doubt I’d have much say in the matter...

The Actor, and other women’s men

Maybe it was an over-euphoric reaction to the revelation that I am probably not with frogspawn, maybe it was a sign I need to work on developing my morals a little, but Saturday night was spent flirting rather shamelessly with an acquaintance of mine, The Actor. The Actor is a little older than me, makes me laugh, has a thoroughly engaging manner and absolutely stunning blue eyes.

Oh, and a girlfriend.

Now, before you form a lynch mob and burn me as a witch, let me say here and now that although I’ve never really considered my position regarding men with girlfriends, wives, etc (after all, the opportunity has never presented itself), I’m about 99 per cent sure I wouldn’t go there. It’s not a civilised way to behave, it’s potentially getting myself into all kinds of mess, it’s potentially causing pain to a total stranger, and also, I’m sure karma comes into play on some level. And while my entire ethos for this year is to get out there and have no-strings fun with men, I don’t think it can be considered ‘no strings’ if there’s an innocent third party involved.

(although, were something to happen with an attached man, it would be interesting to see which percentage of scorn or judgement would be directed at me as opposed to him.)

That said, The Actor ... oh my. We’ve met a few times before, the last time being at a mutual friend’s wedding last year, when, in a barely-enjoyable twist of fate, he wasn’t attached, but I was. I’d been with my then-boyfriend for well over a year, and while he was lovely, and things were basically fine, our relationship was in decline. It was partly my fault – I’d got so comfortable, I hadn’t stopped to think about whether I’d let it go on for longer than I should have done – and I had. While he and I were great friends, that’s all we’d pretty much ended up as.

But the thing that started that spark of doubt in my mind was a dance I had with The Actor at this wedding. We’d spent a lot of the night chatting, and it was friendly, and easy, and he was great company. Then the dancing started, and during one song (I can’t remember which, but how I wish I could!), I danced with just him. I’d like to say it was a deeply sensual experience, in which both of us communicated hopeless and frantic desire with our eyes and our bodies ...but I’d had a few glasses of wine, and I can’t dance for shit even when I’m sober (despite what I might think). But anyway, as this was a slow dance, one of his hands was holding mine. Which I didn’t pay much attention to until after the song finished and a faster one started. Everyone disengaged from their dance partners, as did The Actor and I. But his stunning eyes met mine, and he didn’t immediately drop his grip on my hand. That was it. That was all – and yet those five seconds made my heart beat faster and made my skin tingle with excitement more than it had in the entire time I’d been with my boyfriend. And when he and I went back to our hotel room that night and made love, I’m not proud to say that my mind was in a different room, with a different man.

So anyway, thus started the slow realisation that my boyfriend and I weren’t a fit, and eventually we broke up, and Saturday was the first time I’ve seen The Actor since then. And yeah... I was pretty shamelessly flirting with him. But then he’s a total flirt too, so it’s probably quite normal for him! I must point out his girlfriend wasn’t there. But if she had been, then obviously I would have behaved myself, and been friendly to her - I’m not a complete bitch!

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hung up on him or anything – I’ve done that enough times to know what an utter waste of time it is. I just... would! And genuinely, I do wish him luck with The Girlfriend – although our mutual friend who was also there on Saturday told me:

a) "Yes, we ALL know you fancy ********" (gah)

b) That The Actor and The Girlfriend have already been together and broken up before, and he has his doubts as to the longevity of their newly-resumed relationship

Hmmm. Well, we shall see. Maybe one day, The Actor and I will both be in the same place, both be single, and my shameless flirting will pay off. I do hope so - not least because he and I happen to share the same star sign, whose subjects are notorious for being dark, passionate, seductive, sensual, incredibly sexual, borderline kinky and absolute tigers in the bedroom department.

Of course, I can only speak for myself.... ;o)

NEGATIVE!

Oh my God!

Completely, absolutely, utterly and unambiguously negative.

Thank Christ. Thank the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Thank God and all his angels, archangels, cherubim, seraphim, cloud-attendants and beard-trimmers *

(* and thanks to Helen Fielding for that rather brilliant last sentence.)

I bought a pack of two tests last night after work. The rain was hammering down, and I sat on the bus like a zombie, feeling so small and alone. Rather unhelpfully, as I approached the chemist, my iPod started playing ‘Footloose’. It was dark. It was raining. I was on my own. I was on my way to buy a pregnancy test. Somehow, ‘Footloose’ didn’t quite fit my mood. So I turned it off, entered the chemist, located the pregnancy tests, bought a pack of two, and earned myself pretty much the same disapproving look I got when I bought my first one at the age of 18. Nice.

I was sceptical about doing the test in the evening, as I’d repeatedly read, during my near-obsessive Googling the last couple of days, that a you get a more accurate result if you do it in the morning. Plus, I’d drunk about 2 litres of water and several cups of tea at work, so I imagined I was pretty ‘diluted’, shall we say. All the same, I couldn’t wait, so the second I got through my front door, I flung off my coat and my boots and vanished into the bathroom.

Now, the instructions seemed pretty straightforward. Hold stick like so, pee on this bit for five seconds, put the cap back on, put it down, amuse yourself for three minutes, then cry/whoop/faint with relief/scream in horror/suffer brain embolism as appropriate. So I did. The leaflet, which I also read obsessively,  said it would show one pink line if I wasn’t pregnant, and two if I was:

I had four lines. FOUR. 

How very helpful.

One totally obvious standout dark pink line (which would suggest ‘not pregnant’) and three very very barely perceptible palest pink lines (which would suggest ‘what the fuck?!’). Now I just didn’t know what to think, so, on H’s advice, decided to wait until the morning. I couldn’t concentrate on a thing and was beginning to go out of my mind, so I went to bed, feeling more alone and frightened than I’ve ever felt.

I woke up at 6am today, my bladder raring to go. I sleepily repaired to the bathroom to do the second test that was in the packet, and this time...

One dark pink line against a totally brilliant white background.

I am sans frogspawn.

And also, I am SO going back on the Pill. If I have to spend another week worrying like this, I’ll end up having a stroke.


Oh, and incidentally, when I left my house this morning, 'Footloose' was resumed at full volume.

In which I am clearly unfit to produce offspring

Texts between my chum, H, and I last night:

At 8:12pm
Me: Having a lovely distracting night, quaffing free champers. Die, frogspawn, die!!! xx

H: He he! u’ll be fine lovely, just have fun and party hard

At 9:12pm
Me: Thanks poppet! May grab a test from the 24hr pharmacy on way home....xx

H: Let me know if u need me and don’t do it til the morning. xx

Me: Well no, have had that much champers and wine, wouldn’t trust the result anyway!! (yeah, am pissed, so can’t  talk ...)0

At 9:42pm
H: He he! Good way to take ur mind off it! xxx

Me: well...kinda!Mind still p

.......clearly I am not fit to bring human life into this world.

Last night was spent being basically a terrible potential mother, drinking far too many glasses of champagne and eyeing up potential frogs (it’s OK, I don’t approve of myself very much today either). This was a party to celebrate the engagement of a girl I work with, and was held in a dinky little wine bar near Borough Market. I had a lovely night, but I was silly to get as alcoholically compromised as I did, as I ended up sitting on a tall, rickety stool, in my killer but utterly impractical heels, with my back about half a metre from endless shelves of wine bottles, and a tall glass cabinet filled with vintage Armanac from 1917. Translation: if I had fallen backwards, I would have either been killed instantly and in spectacularly bloody fashion, or I would have had my arse sued off.

Anyway, speaking of bloody displays, there is still no sign of the elusive ‘men in red coats’. And while I’m trying to stay calm, and not get in a total flap, I’ve been very unhelpfully worrying myself by endlessly Googling ‘pregnancy signs and symptoms’. Which, as a whole, has been basically reassuring:

Implantation spotting
No

Missed Period
I wouldn’t call it missed just yet, but it’s just under a week late.

Frequent Urination
I drink about three litres of water a day, so I’m pretty much on the loo all the time anyway. But I haven’t noticed any increase.

Morning Sickness
No, although today isn’t the best day to answer that, as I’m a little hung over. (See? TERRIBLE mother!)

Breast Changes (becoming larger, more tender, or darker in appearance)
Not at all.

Fatigue
No more than I would expect, given how busy I’ve been recently. But as I understand it, this is fatigue as in even performing the simplest tasks can leave you feeling utterly wiped out. I haven’t had that.

Body Discomforts (headaches, backaches, acne, constipation, heartburn, mood swings, constipation, diarrhea, bloating, indigestion, and abdominal cramps.)
Headaches yes.
Back’s a bit creaky, but I think that may be from going back to the gym for the first time in a fortnight.
Chin has been particularly pustule-ridden this week, but that’s normal for me when I’m premenstrual.
None of the others, especially not bloating. If anything, I feel quite svelte this week.

Food Cravings
No.

Food Aversions
No. Although I feel I can't really win with these last two signs!

Smell Aversions
No.


Altered sense of taste (particularly a metallic taste in the mouth)
No.


Elevated body temperature
Not in the slightest - in fact, I've been bloody freezing this week.

Baby Movement
If I am currently with frogspawn, then I imagine it’s only the size of a pinhead right now, so quite frankly, it could be breakdancing in there, and I wouldn’t feel a thing.

Intuition (some women, just ‘feel’ pregnant)
My intution – my gut feeling – says I’m not pregnant. But if I may borrow from Nick Hornby, I’m not entirely convinced that my guts don’t have shit for brains.

Positive Pregnancy Test
As much as I can’t face it, I’m going to buy one tonight if nothing happens today.

And this on the day the Frenchman flies back to London. Oy vey...

umm... hello?

Something, referred to in some circles as Aunt Flo, Rag Week or falling to the Communists, should have arrived by now. It hasn’t, and although I’m not panicking just yet, I’m starting to wonder where it is. It’s not late or anything, actually I’m right smack in the middle of when it usually arrives. But it hasn’t. And I don’t feel like it’s imminent. I don’t feel the familiar rumblings of things starting to happen down there.

Although, on the plus side, my weight’s inexplicably low at the moment, my chin has erupted into its usual display of premenstrual horror, and I have a banging headache, all of which seem pretty encouraging signs.

I’ve been ludicrously busy these last couple of weeks, and running around like a blue-arsed fly, getting a little run down, and probably not getting enough sleep, so I’m wondering if that hasn’t knocked my body clock somewhat out of whack. I’m hoping so anyway, and hoping even more so that this no-show is absolutely and utterly nothing to do with the Frenchman (with whom certain precautions were very much taken).

et fin ... or not?

This morning, I wrote this:

Call it impatience, call it having too-high standards, call it what you like, but in today’s episode, we bid a farewell to the frog fondly known The Frenchman, and cast him back into the pond.

Exactly a week ago, after a not-bad sleepy morning shag, we left his house together, and I asked if he’d like to get together again before he travelled abroad for work, next week. He said yes, asked me to call him, and gave me a kiss goodbye as we parted to go to work.

So I called (well, texted) on Sunday, asking if he still wanted to meet up, and said that tonight was the only day I had free this week. And I heard nothing. Now I know there could be a myriad of reasons ... he could be busy ... he could be snowed under at work, preparing for this trip abroad ... he could be in hospital with alcoholic poisoning after France won the rugby on Sunday.

Or, you know, he could just not be interested. Which is fine. To be honest, I’m not all that interested in him, on a relationship level. But one of my absolute, utter pet hates is guys who just ignore you and hope you’ll go away. It’s pathetic – what is this, school? We’re all grown ups, and if someone doesn’t want to see me again, that’s fine – just grow some balls and tell me. Maybe it doesn’t really matter to them, if they never intend to cross paths with you again, but if the roles were reversed, I know I’d much rather there was someone out there in the world who thought of me as someone who wasn’t interested but had the manners and the courtesy to be honest with them. It’s happened to me more times than I care to remember, and frankly, it’s enough to make you understand where Glenn Close was coming from when she said ‘I’m not gonna be ignored, Dan!’

I know there could be all kinds of reasons, and maybe I should be less draconian, but in my experience (however much I’ve denied the truth of it in the past, when I’ve been hung up on someone), the main reason for someone not calling back is because they don’t want to pursue anything with you. And I went through all this with The Pick Up Artist , and I’m so not in the mood for another long, drawn out, pain in the arse situation like that.

Fin.

Then, this afternoon, my phone buzzed with this:

‘Hi, sorry for my late reply, I had to travel all week and travel again on Saturday so it’s quite hectic. Can’t make it tonight let see when I am back. R’

Gah! But I had you so neatly and conveniently written off, you irksome little frog!

Well, well, well. Although this smacks of him keeping his options open, I shall see what transpires. I may condescend to spend another evening in his company, and see if his performance dans le chambre has improved (since ...er ... last week). I won’t reply to this text though – I rather like the idea of having all the power!

But, er...

‘Can’t make it tonight...’ - he seriously thinks I have so little going on in my life that I would have jumped at the chance to see him, had he been free, with five hours’ notice?? As it happens, my workmate A and I are going to an art opening, then for copious lashings of wine. So there!

‘Let see’ - in the extremely curt words of Helen Mirren in The Queen: ‘Yes. Let’s.’