Thursday, 8 September 2011

Finally it has happened to me, right in front of my face, my feelings can’t describe it.

My feelings can’t describe it; but CC Peniston’s can. So that’s a relief.

Because, my god, these feelings are all like, new, and stuff and frankly I’m confused by them. The other day I arrived at work with half a loaf of bread in my hand. It wasn’t even my bread and I certainly didn’t need it at work. I looked down, utterly perplexed by its existence; then I took it home again. I have also recently: run a red light (I mean properly just didn’t see it), dropped a dress size (by accident), eaten fruit (bleurgh), attempted press-ups (don’t) and most shocking of all: Been Nice to My Mother.

And it’s the Being Nice thing that is really noticeable. Falling in love has never made me nice before. It’s made me distracted, selfish and paranoid while ultimately leading me up the garden path to complacency and fat. All love leads to fat in the end as far as I can tell. But never nice. And last night I bought him a present. ME! And it’s not even his birthday.

NORMAL me is the kind of horrible cold hearted no-right-to-call-herself-a-woman cow who panic-makes her Valentine’s cards. Not, as you might suspect, out of a right-on eco sensibility (although I totes pretended it was) but because I couldn’t even get it together to buy a card from the garage on my way home despite weeks of 40ft flashing, neon signposts directing me towards the correct way to express my love at this hallowed time of year.

IN LOVE me is "shmoopy". Apparently. And when he pointed this out ON MY FACEBOOK PAGE, I didn’t even mind.

Gah! It won’t last, probably.

Wednesday, 24 August 2011


Yesterday I ate an apple for breakfast.

A tiny, piddling little apple.

And I thought to myself, mmmm that was quite refreshing; I feel full now. Then I tried to eat a pain au chocolat which I later found discarded and only half-eaten on a plate of grapes (yes, grapes) on my desk. I HAD FORGOTTEN TO EAT IT.

Please understand: I HATE FRUIT. And I LOVE lard. Lard in all its magnificent lardy forms: pastries, fry-ups, clotted cream, those heart attack bars from Pret, more fry-ups. I live for lard.

I also live for sleep. I LOVE sleep. But the past two weeks has seen me waking up positively effervescing with joy only to realise it’s 3.30am and I am an idiot. I write a lot of blog posts in my head at 3.30am. They are all much funnier than the ones I post here.

So yeah: combine the whole fruit eating, insomniac thing with the fact Winter has descended in August and that Kate Winslet has been flexing her superheroine muscles rescuing-Richard-Branson’s-mother-from-a-burning-building and life seems to be taking on an air of serious unreality this week.

What next?

ps. Draw your own conclusions about the cause of all of this; my lips are sealed.
pps. Apologies to anyone who was hoping for tales of comedating from this week but I cancelled them all.

Thursday, 18 August 2011

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin . . .

THE MISSION: find a boyfriend.

THE RULES: keep spending strictly within a £20 per date limit; try not to get too drunk and whatever you do: DON’T KISS THEM.

NAME: David
HEIGHT: 6’ 5” or, in his words, “really fucking tall”
COST: £15. Well done me.
DRUNK: 4 pints: hammered.
KISS: Natch. See above status.
SEEING AGAIN: Noooooooooope.
COMMENTS: See below post.

NAME: Andrew (not Andy)
HEIGHT: Not as tall as he claimed.
COST: £7.40*. Gold star to me.
DRUNK: 1 pint, double g&t, half a bottle of wine: bit pissed.
KISS: Yup.
SEEING AGAIN: Yes. Has potential.
COMMENTS: Wants to run off to the south of France and have four kids but fears he may have to lower the number of sprogs in light of my great age. Cheeky bastard.

*plus the cost of the fags I bought on the way home. Dammit! Dating makes me smoke.

NAME: Yawn
HEIGHT: Didn’t notice
COST: Not much
KISS: ---------------------- negative
COMMENTS: Highlight of the evening was getting an email from the Man I’m Going To Marry (more on this subject to follow) saying he’d had a premonition of me looking bored somewhere. His talents truly have no end.

Date 4 has been postponed due to inability (mine) to string words together and the doggy revolution I came home to last night which involved ripping up my vintage leather armchair. That and the fact there is no space in my brain for anything other than the MIAGTM.

Tuesday, 16 August 2011


“I just recounted: you were number 9” – said the message from Friday night’s date. Number 9 what, you might ask. Answer: the ninth woman he had ever kissed. Oh Jesus.

As a good friend of mine would say, dogs learn faster. Offer a dog an electrified choccy drop and I reckon it wouldn’t take more than one dose of pain to get the message through. I on the other hand repeatedly kiss boys I have no intention of seeing again. Result: guilt and admin. I even told this one the PASSION KISS story in the hope of putting him off. Didn’t work. Turns out he’d been deeply religious up until a couple of years ago and was now starting out his life as if he were 18 again. Let’s gloss over the finer details but suffice it to say around about the time he had hoisted me up in the air (he was 6ft 5) at the bus stop and suggested we go back to his but “keep our clothes on” I was scarpering up Mare St faster than if a vast mob of looters was behind me.


And there’s a lot of next. Oh yes you lucky, lucky people; I will be baring my soul to you all in the name of entertainment over the next couple of weeks. I’ll try and keep a running diary otherwise I think I may get confused so here’s a quick heads up of what’s to come . . .

TONIGHT: Grumpy Andrew (not Andy – absolutely positively not Andy, apparently).

TOMORROW: Steve! Slightly concerned he works in King’s Cross. Could be too close for home.

THURSDAY: Stuart! Who I met on Saturday at a burlesque show. Fancy that – a real lifer. He’s undoubtedly too nice and I will break him.

NEXT WEEK: Jonathan (serious, short but very hot) and Stuart (different one – tall and funny but only one pic. Cause for concern? He likes furniture though which is basically why I said yes)

More of this anon then – assuming I live that long.

Friday, 12 August 2011


Just a quick update really to say that, after a fairly doomed flirtation with meeting people in real life, I am once again stalking men in cyberspace . . . Keep checking the site for more tales of dating derring-do. You know it makes sense.

Well it’s that or go out with the bin man who insisted on joining me on my dog walk this morning.

Monday, 1 August 2011


Seriously - would you date this man? *sigh* I do this for you lot you know. Right - where was I before he distracted me...somewhere around profile 300 of 1,000. Bloody internet dating. Can't I just get a nice boyfriend already??

Monday, 25 July 2011

My Oberon! What visions have I seen!

I am delighted to report that the powerful love potion that is rejection has worn off.

And that, dear reader, is all I have to say about that.

I no longer hate myself (well maybe a bit but that's another story for another day . . .)

Friday, 22 July 2011

Welcome to Dumpsville . . .

I’m not very good at dumping people.

No, I SUCK at dumping people. In my last two ‘relationships’ (I use this term very loosely) I have spent literally 2/3rds of the time with them, working up to dumping them. This is tedious for those around me, no doubt perplexing for the boy in question and emotionally exhausting for me. It is in everyone’s interest that I get better at it.

This time around it was time to say goodbye to TV man, who is a truly, truly lovely human being, which just made it all the harder. So, all psyched up following a coaching session from a friend (‘imagine you hate him’ was her excellent but, as it turns out, hard to follow advice) this is how the conversation went:

Me: I need to talk to you about something...I've been thinking and...
Him: yep, fine, yep, totally.
Me: You know what I'm going to say don't you.
Him: Yep.
Me: only I wanted to speak to you in person otherwise it's just...
Him: yeah...err are you around this week?
Me: Errr yes
Him: Shall we meet for a drink after work tomorrow?
Me: Yes, that would be...nice (NO IT WOULDN'T!!!!!!)

How the HELL did I screw that up so badly?! And yes it has been pointed out that ‘in person’ does mean face to face but hey – I was under pressure! My words came out wrong!

Anyway, I gave him an out the next day but he didn’t take it. We have yet to meet but he’s going to let me know when he’s available to be dumped in person. Crazy fool.

Tuesday, 19 July 2011


Social networking, internet dating, kindles, ipods....fuck it - I didn't even get my own laptop until a year ago....the whole techno revolution is waaaaaay beyond me but, just as my Mum latched on to teenage slang circa 1996 and then steadfastly clung onto it FOREVERMORE, I am just about hanging on in there. That said, a friend text(ed?) me the other day with the baffling words, "like donkey kong" and I puzzled and puzzled before offering up, does that mean "won't be long"? It does not. It means "it's on" or "something's about to go down"*. Apparently. This friend is far cooler than me clearly. However as much as I cultivate a kind of modern day Columbo air about myself with regard to new-fangled technology, there's just no getting away from it. Well duh - I have my own blog for starters! And this has raised a few interesting points recently . . .

First I accidentally mentioned the blog in front of the ex/now very close friend the other day. The second it slipped out of my mouth I knew I was in trouble. I had actually told him about it before in fairness but is was roughly 2am after a very drunken party on our second date so frankly we had other things on our minds. Anyway there's no real reason not to let him see it - I tell him everything anyway - except that I'd always be conscious that he'd be reading it and I'd have to censor myself accordingly. Eventually he agreed I had a 'right to privacy' (and then said he'd google the shit out of every dating site until he found me. Sigh.). But I guess the question is - do I really have a right to privacy? This is a public blog after all.

And then there's Facebook. Ah FB, friend and foe. Comfort when you're lonely, entertainment when you're bored and torture when you're stalking an ex or potential new boyfriend. Without FB how would I ever have known that a man who I met on the internet was friends with one of my ex's childhood best friends (who thinks I'm scum by the way)? Or that when I was dating two guys at once boy 1's ex was also friends with boy 2? Eek! So yeah FB is all good for avoiding potential cross-over pitfalls and for endless perving over those who leave their photos unprotected but what are you opening yourself up to? How soon do you accept someone's 'friendship'? I've had men I'd happily sleep with but I won't be friends with them on Facebook. It's too intimate. Too public. And yes, for me, the main problem is self-censoring. And herein lies the most recent problem that's been testing my the subject of my last two posts (let's call him Flaky Boy) never made good on that drink BUT did see fit to request my friendship on FB on Saturday night. WTF? Are we 12? So, to ignore and look petty, or to accept and give him access to all my seriously unattractive photos (and believe me there are some humdingers) - that is the question! Not to mention dooming myself to self-conscious posting until such time as I pull myself together and get over this man!

I accepted.

I hate myself.

*Thank you urban dictionary.

Tuesday, 12 July 2011


So, after smileygate I was definitely not going near that boy again. Right? You’d think I’d learn – take your own advice lady.... if you don’t hear from them, they’re just not that into you! Anyway, so after a full 7 days of non-reply to my suggestion we go out for a drink suddenly I was faced with the prospect of seeing him on a social night out. “BE BREEZY!” was the command from a friend. Breezy? I am never breezy. Still, I took a deep breath, squeezed myself into my tightest jeans, donned a pair of heels and sashayed my way into the bar. He wasn’t there. I exhaled and sat down to chat to his two best friends and we were deep into a ‘who’s snogged the hottest model’ conversation (I win hands down on that one by the way) when I glanced round, caught sight of the boy and did the BIGGEST double take ever followed by some dreadful two-handed wave thing. So much for breezy.

And then things took a turn for the unexpected when at the first opportunity he tackled me and accused me of having offloaded his jacket really quickly (onto a mutual friend – this was my excuse for suggesting we meet. I know...I’m a wimp). I laughed it off, breezily. Then he brought it up again a bit later. Well, I said, you didn’t reply to my text and it’s been A WEEK! But apparently in boy land is week isn’t very long. And apparently he does want to go for a drink. And at the end of the night it was also quite apparent that he thought he’d like to go home with me too. But I wasn’t going to make that mistake again – doesn’t he realise I don’t put out (often) for anything less than an evening at Nando’s? Unfortunately this was the point at which breezy blew right out of the window and my parting, drunken, words to him were...I think we should go for that drink, so call me. But don’t leave it a week – a week is bullshit.

3 days and counting.

I hate myself.

Friday, 1 July 2011


My ex had many faults, but his grammar and punctuation was excellent. It was chief among the attributes I found so attractive in him. This may tell you a lot about our relationship.

Anyway, being an editor and therefore surrounded by similarly anal word Nazis, it wasn't until I launched myself onto the dating scene that I encountered the all encompassing wave of emoticons that had entered our communication landscape.* There they are in their ubiquitous glory - winking, blinking, smiling, crying - and probably even puking. I am surrounded. I have not however, even once, given in and used one . . . until a boy made me do it.

I can't believe I caved! I've slagged them off in dating profiles and on dates (I'm a really fun date me) and I've learnt to mentally filter out the winky, blinky, tongue sticky outy smiley faces that deface the billet doux of our digital age. I no longer fume at the idea that I am not capable of deducing someone's tone without a gigantic flashing signpost pointing me in the right direction but neither have a I EVER, EVER used one. In fact I have one friend who communicates with me solely with emoticons these days just to piss me off. I claim not to understand a word he says.

So how on earth did I stoop so low? It was a boy wot made me do it. A hot boy who I never should have sent that last text to. And I NEVER should have included that smiley. And the worst of it? 23 hours later and HE STILL HASN'T REPLIED.

I hate myself.

*Yes, I am aware (thank you Wikipedia) that smileys have a rich heritage traceable back as far as the 19th century and I'm sure they're not actually the root of all evil. It's a personal thing - I fucking hate them.

Wednesday, 8 June 2011


I've just seen that they have a SPEED DUETING night coming up at Lucky Voice. How could I possibly not do that??

I have literally no will power. As was demonstrated last night when I started the evening protesting that I wasn't drinking and that I had a 10.30pm curfew....3 cocktails, a bottle of wine and a very expensive dinner later I rolled home at pumpkin-turning hour seriously the worse for wear. But at least I wasn't paying.

Tuesday, 7 June 2011


Hello, hello. I wanted to write something but I’m not sure what it is I want to say so I’m just going to scribble and see what comes out . . .

This weekend I had the heart-warming experience of hearing that someone had highly recommended my blog to my best friend not realising the connection or indeed who I was. I was so excited by this news that I literally jumped up and down beaming in front of a room full of strangers. I was also drunk – but you could argue, when am I not? And judging by the number of people who seem to know the intimate details of my ‘love’ (I use that term in the loosest sense) life the blog is very much out there in the world - although if someone would please just post a comment directly rather than emailing me I would probably seek them out and snog them. Perhaps this is why people don’t comment?

Still, people are reading it and that makes me happy, but for the first time I’m also experiencing a certain amount of disapproval . . . a certain eyebrow-raising at my blasé attitude. Granted these are people who’ve never joined the internet dating craze and don’t know how heavily insulated your heart, and ego, has to be to survive, especially if you’re a naturally thin-skinned creature as I am. But funnily enough although the person who gave me a huge mouthful about it the other night claimed never to have internet dated I had actually seen his (rubbish) profile on GSM a year before! He insisted – loudly in front of a pub full of people - that men only date for sex, vehemently affirmed that I would never have a meaningful relationship with someone I met on the net and that what I really ought to do to meet men was join a book club (or some such wholesome activity). He was more than a little pissed off therefore when I pointed out that the reason he was bitter was cos he’d tried and failed at it. Still, whatever his motives, it was a nasty shock and it reminded me that dating is an incredibly emotive topic – after all it literally could not be more personal. And after nearly 2 years of emotional upheavals of all varieties I think I may have finally reached total burn out. So guess what?


And I even wonder if the truth of the matter is I actually don’t want a boyfriend at all. I know, I know, I’ve made these protestations before and the Man Ban didn’t exactly work out so well but this time I really mean it. Ok, technically I’m seeing someone – let’s call him TV man - at the moment but it’s pretty half-hearted so I’m gonna let that one run its course. And I’ll see how tonight goes with Clapham Dough Boy (yes 4 months between dates is unorthodox but hey, he wore me down) but again unlikely to go anywhere.

Right now it’s all about having my very own roof over my head, finally emptying out that suitcase, getting my doggies back and re-embracing the gentle art of domesticity. Hackneygirl is going back to Hackney, and for now anyway, she’s offline-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday, 20 May 2011



An attractive woman in her 30s or 40s who is on the hunt once again - the cougar is woman in her sexual prime who prefers to hunt rather than be hunted. A cougar's victims are usually under 25, as cougars prefer to mate with men who still have hair. Cougars generally feed and then continue hunting, as they enjoy role reversal. She will not play the usual bullshit games that women in their early twenties participate in. End state, she will be going for the kill, just like you.

All of which paints a frighteningly accurate picture of a recent encounter of mine.

If you’ve been paying attention you will know that I am now knocking on 31 years old. I do not know how this happened and I do not like it one little bit, particularly when my darling little brother recently accused me of entering ‘middle age’. Dear god. Brother dearest defines it thusly: 0-30 years = young, 30-60 = middle age and 60-90 = old. I’m not sure what that means for those of 90+ but right now that is not my main concern. My main concern is that, while I had been happily labouring under the impression that I didn’t look a day over 21 (aided and abetted by Sainsbury’s’s (how to apostrophise??) overzealous alcohol IDing policy) I have in fact moved firmly into the COUGAR camp.

This was brought home to me recently when I met a beautiful, but very young, boy at a party. He looked like the result of some kind of weird scientific experiment where my two favourite ex-boyfriends (both from my late teens) had been spliced together to form my ideal man and then served up to me in 2011. Unfortunately I’m not 19 any more – a fact that didn’t go unnoticed by his friends who, as I hunted him mercilessly from party to pub to club, were a little disgruntled when I walked in on their conversation about how I was ‘like, a cougar’. And when pressed they put my age at 35. Ouch. Undeterred, by the end of the night I had hunted my prey to ground and drunkenly exchanged numbers before stalking off into the wilds of Finsbury Park.

48 hours later, and with my post Royal wedding hangover finally in check, I headed over to the boy’s house to take him up on his offer of a ‘cup of tea’. Is that what the kids are calling it these days? ‘Tea’ turned out to be sitting in his bedroom being subjected to dreadful pop psychology and ‘difficult’ jazz LPs but eventually we cut to the chase and believe me, it was worth it. I drew the line at being offered a family bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken as a post-coital snack though. Tsk, students.

So, I’ve decided that cougarism is mutually beneficial – I got youth, beauty and stamina and he got to avoid an awkward scene the next day – mainly because I hopped it home that night…there was no way I was letting him see my crumpled, mascara-smeared, middle-aged face in the morning! Oh and, assuming he gets all his homework done in time, he’s invited himself to mine for ‘dinner’ this weekend. I really can’t wait. . .

Thursday, 19 May 2011

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to me! HDOJM is 1 year old. . .

And I’m still single. Whoopdeedoo! BUT it’s been a lot of fun getting here and although my body has definitely aged in dog years rather than human ones I’ve learnt a lot, laughed a lot and cried a helluva lot to match.

So, I think it fitting to give you some round-up nerdy dating stats as your birthday gift. I had a quick tally up last night and discovered that, including today’s super tedious lunch date (sobriety sucks), the total number of men dated in the past 12 months comes to a surprisingly low 25. However throw in the ones I dated more than once, the 6 months of the past 12 when I was actually pretending to be a girlfriend (with various different men) and suddenly I realise why I’ve been so tired all the time! Passion kiss conversion rate stands at almost dead on 50% which ain’t bad if you ask me and the dead pet tally still stands at 1. Which is a relief, particularly if you are small and feathery.

Oh, and the Man Ban? Yeah, that didn’t work out so well…or at all. I may have taken one day off – does that count?

Wednesday, 13 April 2011

Tales from the frontline of dateland

Readers I am wounded in action. I am writing to you in the throes of yet another post-date hangover and with yet another serious case of rejection. I have therefore decided it’s time for a tactical temporary retirement – otherwise known as the MAN BAN. My Soulmates subscription expires on 25th April and after that the Man Ban will be in force until the 1st June. Hopefully this will give me time to heave my self esteem back off the floor, make peace with my liver and patch the hole in my wallet.

In the meantime I might as well go nuts which means I will be sending the totally inappropriate text I have drafted to last night’s date even though I’m 99.9% sure he’s not interested. After all I have literally no pride left to lose.

Monday, 4 April 2011

Full Frontal Frottage

Today's post comes courtesy of an anonymous guest blogger. Enjoy!

Frottage: see ‘dry humping’ or any other non-penetration body grinding done with or without clothes* in public or in private.

Unaccustomised as I am to blogging (don’t get me wrong, I’m more than qualified at internet dating – 5 years on and off, and counting), I find myself harangued into sharing a recent first date experience.

Now, I’m not really sure if frottage is a made up word, or whether it’s local to our collective shires, but wherever it’s from it’s certainly not something I expected to experience on a first date at Shoreditch house on a Sarruday night.

The invitation from a rather cute music mogul to a first date at the ‘whoreditch’ was a rather bold move designed solely to impress. I therefore decided to ignore a couple of the gayer photos in his GSM collection and chipped up at the allotted time only to be greeted by a quite effeminate media-darhling who knew everybody and instantly explained the various complexities of the cocktail list to me. Said cocktails were re-examined, appraised and sunk in great detail over a 4-5 hour period, which helped ease my blindness to the effeminate leg crossing, Julia Andrews-esque sweeping hand gestures and emotive kiss and hand to heart salute to his departing best guy friend. All the more surprising then when he invited me over to the sofa area before launching into a swift neck kiss manoeuvre which soon led to a ‘breath of fresh air and cigarette’ around the pool. Yes, pool. It was freezing. So, getting seductively under the blanket,** we started to snog like teenagers. Hands wandered and before I knew it, I was experiencing a serious case of full-frontal frottage by the rooftop pool of da whoreditch. Classy. Briefly stopping to remove his steamed-up glasses ‘muso massif’ turned to me and said . . . so shall we go back to my house? Um, no actually – I don’t do first date sex…I’m a good girl see (more shire speak).

Clearly seriously put out at my refusal to, well, put out, the next thing I knew he had extricated himself from underneath the blanket and was jumping up to arrange me a cab home. Then, just as he was fetching my coat, he turned to me and said, “but, but . . . I touched your vag!?***”

Huh? I couldn’t help but wonder as I weaved my way home (with 3 arse slaps from random men en route - was I putting out some serious pheromones that night??) - does he also think that if he touches my belly button I will get pregnant?

*In this case very definitely with.
*This is physically impossible after a 5hr cocktail bender
**For the purposes of this article some names have been changed he actually used the more formal; vagina

Friday, 1 April 2011

mmmm, chalky

I was feeling left out of today's posting frenzy so thought I'd share a little story told to me by a friend last night.

Said friend is in foreign country, alone, and has managed to hook up with a gang of impossibly cool and good looking guys, one of whom she has bagged the night before. She is heading out to meet said crowd in a little restaurant and as she exits her hotel she spies them walking up ahead. It's too far to run (this is a hot country) but she speeds up a little bit to try and catch up with them. Gaining on them rapidly, she realises she ought to freshen up a bit and starts to attempt make-up application - this goes reasonably well. The next task is to freshen breath - but reaching into her handbag she realises she is out of chewing gum. However, further rummaging produces gum shaped results, and, only metres away from the impossibly gorgeous man whose face she has been kissing only hours previously, she pops her findings in her mouth and chews vigourously.

Only to realise that although one of the items she has put in her mouth is definitely chewing gum (albeit a little fluffy), the other would more accurately be described as ibuprofen.

The two substances combine to form a gluey sticky chalky horrifying mess in her mouth, but for some reason this does not prompt her to slow down and deal with the problem elegantly. No, she keeps pace. She is gaining on them fast, all the while spitting and gagging and dribbling a viscose white goo from her mouth . . . You'll be pleased to know she managed to wipe the spaff-like substance from her face before the gorgeous boy turned round, but it was a bloody close thing.

The lesson? Clean out your handbag ladies, or, at the very least, don't put anything in your mouth unless you've had a good look at it first.


The world’s gone topsy turvy all of a sudden. This week I have moved into a shed, faced my ultimate fear and seen my former stalker rise up into the Soulmates ‘popular’ charts. What on earth is going on?

The shed has absolutely nothing to do with dating (and given it’s at the bottom of someone’s garden and has no curtains I really think it should stay that way) but I just thought I’d mention it. The former stalker I can only put down to a major glitch in the Soulmates website revamp, and the facing of the ultimate fear came about as a result of this . . .

Last Saturday. 2nd date with a man I’d met the weekend before with a stomping hangover and only 3 hours sleep. My judgement was a little impaired. I was due to meet him at a pub but instead he was waiting for me at the bus stop. And he was wearing jeans and a blazer with a white scoop neck t-shirt underneath exposing a vast swathe of ginger chest hair. Lunch (thai curry) arrived and he picked up his napkin and tucked it in to the top of said t-shirt. My face must have been a picture because he rapidly untucked it and put it on his lap. So far, so definitely don’t fancy him but he knew I'd come all the way from the other side of London and had to go to a party nearby at 8pm (we met at 2) so I couldn't see how to escape. So, in an attempt to deflect attention from myself somehow I ended up inviting a long-suffering friend to join us. Obviously this was his cue to quietly slip away but then my friend’s boyfriend rocked up to join the party and suggested we all go out for dinner. The next thing you know he’d cancelled his evening plans and we were off on some kind of crazy double date!

Now, bear in mind that this marathon date lasted for 8 whole hours. 8 hours made bearable by lakes of highly alcoholic Weston’s cider. There was, therefore, and I’m ashamed to say it but none of you will be surprised to hear, an inevitable amount of passion kissing. So, in summary, 8 hours, met my friends, lots of snogging. I had totally given him the wrong impression.

He texted me the next day. I brushed it off.

He texted again.

And again the following day saying, and I quote: "What's your surname; I want to facebook stalk you?"

And so unless I was to let my cowardice dictate my choice of future husband my fear of fears had to be faced. It was my mission, and I had to accept it, to write down in cold, hard words: I do not fancy you.

The result? He took it exceptionally well. Why have I been being such a baby about this? So that’s it – my days as a procrastinator par excellence are behind me, and anyway I spent hours crafting that text so it would be a shame not to use it again.


Hello and greetings to you all. I am a friend of hackneygirl's and thanks to unmitigated peer pressure from her and others, I have just this minute taken the leap into the world of INTERNET DATING after a year of the single life. I am rather terrified and embarrassed by the whole thing (my mother's first reaction to the news was 'Are you LOOKING for a pervert?') and the experience of ticking phrases to describe my personality was nothing short of traumatic. We agreed it was OK to admit to 'home-lover' as long as I was also a 'pub-lover' - to stress that I wasn't a fat agoraphobic nobody. It is true that I occasionally venture down the road to neck a bottle of red before trolling back home (to the home I love) via the chipshop. It was OK to put 'successful' (though that didn't make the final ten - for if we're talking salary, I *do* work in publishing) but we quibbled over 'intelligent'. After all, you don't want to scare a man off before he's even met you. Men are THREATENED by intelligence. I insisted on it in the end though, partly because I'm not sure how true that is and partly because I don't want to be with a man who is embarrassed/ bored/ scared by the fact that I like books and that. 'Fun-lover' was dismissed with a universal chorus of 'lame - who DOESN'T love fun'? And as for 'build' - we plumped for 'curvaceous' in the end. That gives me room for error if I stack on a few pounds through sheer stress. As for the photo selection process - don't get me started... Anyway, the profile is up there... and I'll be checking in here with the occasional update. That's assuming any dates are forthcoming. I did also specify 'doesn't suffer fools' so perhaps that's weeded out a large number. (Cynical about men? Moi?) Please hold my hand and offer me guidance along the way. Apparently I need to steer clear of some chap named Brian! Love, The Curvaceous Home-Lover Who Doesn't Suffer Fools

Tuesday, 22 March 2011

Pass me my pinny!

I have a date tomorrow. And I’m kind of excited about it! I’m trying my best to keep a lid on the day-dreaming - and restrict it to work hours only - but as my current temporary bedroom has no blinds I wake up at 5am and it’s that or endlessly rearranging furniture in my head for the flat I’m, hopefully, buying. Both pointless yet horribly compelling exercises guaranteed to drive all hope of sleep away.

So, yeah, why am I so excited? Well, quite apart from the fact he has the the sexiest eyes I've ever seen - think Russell Brand but with no hair (I'm going through a bald man phase. Don't ask), he’s also passed all the little tests I like to set. Chief of which is decisiveness and ability to tell me in as few texts as possible where and when we’re meeting. I love this. I may pretend to be a tough, independent, home-owning, career woman but really I just want a man to take charge, and perhaps also fling me over his shoulder and drag me home for some good old fashioned ravishing. Oops, day-dreaming again . . .

Other excellent things he's done include a complete lack of smileys, LOLs (and their ilk) or even kisses. All of which gladdens my retrosexual heart. Yes, I am a frilly pinny away from the 1950s and frankly I don’t care. In fact, I read an article in The Stylist the other day that really got on my wick. They were chastising modern women for demanding equality in the workplace but sticking to traditional roles at home. The article even claimed that there are hordes of women out there sitting in darkness rather than changing a lightbulb themselves. Ridiculous. They also cited women who, when single, had been capable of simultaneously wielding a drill, cooking dinner and changing a lightbulb but who, once partnered up, became too princessy to even take out the bins. But isn’t that the joy of a relationship? It’s a division of labour, a sharing of skills, and although I know I can knock up a log store or re-wire a light if I have to it didn’t do much for my ex’s ego (and therefore our relationship) whenever I demonstrated that ability. And you can be damn sure he never once cleaned the toilet* so why shouldn’t I get my bills sorted out for me and my tyre pressure checked?

So for me it’s time for men to man up. You Tarzan, me Jane. Now how about that rumble in the jungle sexy eyes?

*I once overheard him boasting about this fact to a girl at a party. Not. Happy.

Thursday, 17 March 2011


Yesterday I was dumped by text.

For shame! But worse, far worse, is the fact I should have done it myself weeks ago. I just never know when to cut and run. Even when it’s plain the relationship is deader than Kerry Katona’s career I’m still plugging away at my latest comeback angle (Strictly Come Dinner Dating On Ice anyone?). I get fond of people you see. Even (especially?) arseholes. I don’t like saying a fundamental goodbye and I feel genuinely sad at the end of dates with nice people that you don’t fancy. This is probably how I get into the accidental passion kissing scenarios (that and my borderline alchoholism) and then have to spend hours of my life constructing overly tactful thanks-but-no-thanks messages. The latest of which resulted in a lengthy conversation with the bread baron while he was in Sao Paulo! I dread to think how much that dumping cost me. Oh and somehow we left it that he’d be in touch in a few weeks to see if I’d changed my mind. See! I suck at dumping people.

In the past I’ve tried the ‘heads-up’ method. I used this on my very first boyfriend – the sweetest loveliest man ever - whose bottom lip started wobbling so furiously when I mooted us splitting up that I backtracked and somehow ended up suggesting that he just think about the possibility and that maybe if he went on a lads holiday and let his hair down, so to speak, that would be ok by me. That way by the time he got back from said holiday – with an orange tan, a serious bleach job and very probably an STD for all I know – he was fully adjusted and ready to take his dumping like a man. So far so successful but since then I’ve found the heads-up method just gives them time to get in there first! Nothing more humiliating than finding the rug’s been unceremoniously whipped from under your feet leaving you firmly in dumpsville, population: you. And this is precisely what happened with KB2. Having identified in the past year the things I do not want in a boyfriend as well as the things I do want in a boyfriend I was at first thrown off the scent when all the things I do not want came packaged in what looked very much like the things that I do want! Are you following me? Almost certainly not but I’ll press on. Eventually I caught on and realised that a 36 year old man who can’t juggle the ‘stress’ of cats and his job is not for me. But despite being deafened by the alarm bells ringing in my ears I still kept plugging away, just long enough for him to clock my displeasure and get in there first. Dammit!

So my new year’s resolution (I am aware that it’s March but the resolution slot is still vacant so I think it’s valid) is this: trust your instincts, cut your losses and at all costs DO NOT GET DUMPED AGAIN! It is very bad for the ego.

Thursday, 10 March 2011


The anaesthetist* has gone! Vanished! Disparu! Which means my merciless (not to mention pointless) online stalking of him must cease.

This is a shame because I’d only just figured out courtesy of fashion friend - the original internet dating queen - that it’s possible to search for people by name on Soulmates WITHOUT LOGGING IN (and therefore disclosing that you have ‘looked’ at them). This is epic, life-changing information and opens up a world of repercussion-free perving possiblities which fashion friend and I have been exploiting shamelessly ever since. For example, we had much fun recently deciding whether One-EyedJeff really did have a glass eye or not (he did) . . . And it took several glasses of cava before we could decide if it was ok that one guy wanted to cover fashion friend in fluorescent paint so he could see her sleeping at night (we decided it was fine – must have drunk more than we thought). Crazy times I tell you. Still, we were justified in a little pointing and laughing session given she’d just hot-taxied it over to mine to download after a truly disastrous date. I’ll let her post that one for you though…or I would but she’s jetted off to be glamorous somewhere hot right now. Oh how the other half live.

Meanwhile, back in my world, things with KB2 (Kent boy the second) are grinding inexorably to a halt. He’s charming, and pretty (in a beat up, slightly chavvy way) and he has the ability to reduce me to a giggling mess just by looking at me but the movie of my life right now would be GROUNDHOG DATE. I like a bit of momentum, me. A bit of giddy, girlish excitement – who doesn’t? And dates that take 4 days of tedious emailing to set up do not set the scene for romance. Neither does an invitation to his house which turned from opportunity-to-demonstrate-husband-material-cooking-skills into cheese-on-toast-and-a-bonk. The fact that in the 3 hours I was there he took no less than 3 phone calls, during one of which I found a woman's hair grip on the floor, and then unceremoniously packed me off home so he could prepare for a meeting didn't help either! Oh and did I mention the cat sick on the bedroom floor? Not that I can really talk on that score...still, less than impressed! Naturally I expressed my less-than-impressedness to him a couple of nights ago and he swore blind he’d make it up to me and that from now on he would show me ‘a whole lot of love’. Love shown to date: one text message.


*the man who broke my heart after one date.

Thursday, 3 March 2011

Fancy yourself as the next Carrie Bradshaw?

Are you unlucky in love? Terminally single? A magnet for dating disasters? I have just the thing for you . . .HDOJM is looking for new contributors as every bugger except for me has been well and truly struck by Cupid’s arrow since signing up and, well, I’m only one woman and I’m doing my best but there’s only so thin I can spread myself without crossing the line between serial dater and hooker.

What’s the worst that can happen? Chances are you’ll meet the love of your life within two posts so it’s a win-win!

You know who I me.

Wednesday, 2 March 2011

Gently up the stream

Dear readers,

Touch me – I’m real: living, breathing, surreptitiously-farting-at-my-desk proof that yes,
I found one.
On the internet.

It was instantly obvious that this one was different. He’s completely brilliant. So brilliant that there is nothing remotely blogworthy about him – I don’t want to jinx it. However, before I toddle off happily into the sunset (and you’re all sick in your mouths a little bit) I just wanted to tell you about my second-to-last ever internet date.

May I present to you….The Rower.

There are a lot of rowers on GSM – I think they find it hard to meet women because all they do is row and they get up ludicrously early. If you search for people who live in Putney or Richmond you’re bound to find one. This particular rower had specified that it was VERY IMPORTANT that anyone he went on a date with lived in Putney, so I don’t know how I slipped through the net. Anyway.

The rower was late. Luckily, I was on a pre-date date so I didn’t particularly care, but I was interested to hear his excuse nonetheless. He finally arrived, huge, breathless, sweaty, hirsute (he looked a bit like a well-fed homeless person if I’m honest, but that’s sort of my type) and full of the most wonderful excuse for tardiness I’ve ever heard ever:

“I’m sorry I’m so late, but I haven’t worn these jeans for a while and when I sat down on the bus they ripped because I’ve been in training and my thighs are a lot bigger than they were when I last wore them. So I had to go to the shop and buy a needle and thread to sew them up. I’m really sorry. It was a bit obscene though, so I thought it was better to be late than to flash my tackle at you in the pub.”

GLORY BE. Despite the obvious error at the end, this was and still remains my favourite excuse ever. He was late because his thighs were so big and manly he was literally bursting out of his clothes – it was obvious his gargantuan muscles wouldn’t fit in the piddly extra large shirts he was forced to buy, so he had to make little rips in the cuffs before he could roll the sleeves up. Woof.

I’m not normally a perv, honest, but I couldn’t stop looking at his arms. I wanted to lick him. I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying (mainly because it was BORING) as I kept imagining him picking me up and throwing me over his shoulder, rowing me away to a desert island somewhere etc etc.

I was so distracted that I didn’t notice how much we had been drinking. I’m a hardcore Gin and Tonicer and can put away 6 without much trouble, but the thing about rowers is that they don’t drink. They row, they train for rowing, they eat enormous bowls of pasta and they sleep. They are very dedicated. This guy was a professional rower, and told me the only time he really got pissed was after a race.

The upshot of this was that I suddenly found myself with a six foot four, 220 pound brick-shithouse of an inebriated man on my hands – he couldn’t walk properly, he was slurring his words and he kept falling asleep a little bit. I half wondered about taking advantage of him while he couldn’t think straight, but that felt a bit rapey so I put him in a cab (from Holborn to Putney – a small act of revenge).

So there you go – my last (hopefully) ever internet dating whinge. Over and out!

Wednesday, 16 February 2011


POOOOMM! And she’s back. Yes folks you may have noticed the blog has been unnaturally quiet over the last few months during my Swedish sojourn but I’m back with a bang and doesn’t my liver, and wallet, know about it. So, what have I learnt while I’ve been moonlighting as a girlfriend? Well, mostly that I’m not cut out to be a girlfriend right now (going AWOL for 48 hours at New Year probably isn’t good girlfriendy behaviour right?) And that I’m not prepared to settle for anything less than (nearly) perfect so I’m hitting the dating trail yet again. I also learnt to count to 10 in Swedish! Useful but it was time to cut and run before he started trying to teach me the Swedish for I love you...

I'm sure you're all on the edge of your seats (ahem) wondering what trouble I've got myself into this time so I'll fill you took a couple of weeks to set some stuff up – had to jettison a proper hottie who was incapable of completing a sentence without LOL LMAO PMSLing – but at last the fruits of my online labour were due to come to fruition this week with a hot date with a(nother) Kent boy (hopefully no ducks will die this time). But before that date rolled around up popped a man I’ve named the Clapham Dough Boy who accosted me at a Shoreditch bus stop in the wee small hours of the weekend and demanded I go out with him. Classy. So you can imagine my surprise when on date two - over cocktails at the Savoy - he revealed his true identity as the heir to a bread-based family fortune. My future as a lady wot lunches (on sandwiches made with the family bread presumably) was surely made! But before you start rolling out the bun in the oven jokes I’m afraid to’s no substitute for chemistry and there wasn’t much passion in that particular passion kiss. NEXT!

Fortunately I managed to squeeze a date with Kent boy in between said first and second Clapham Dough Boy dates and that went with a lot more swing, although we’re both far too old for snogging on public transport. Must. Grow. Up. Second date is next week and I can only hope he chooses a better venue this time...I damn nearly cancelled the first one when my disbelieving eyes read the other three little words any self-respecting girl dreads: ALL BAR ONE.

So, Cinderpunzel signed up to Guardian Soulmates and look what she got . . .

(bear with this...this particular fruitcake is a bit slow to get going but it's worth it!)

I hope you can tak a moment to read this and I hope you understand it.

You know what, I have been in this place for seven weeks now, I have met some lovely people, six to be precise and though I thought they all looked and sounded ideal on there profiles it just hasn't happened, you know, that thing.

I spent fourteen years with my last partner and do not regret a moment, I have been single for over a year, which has been nice, no responcibilities, remote control domination ect but I dont want to spend to much longer this way, everybody needs somebody I think, someone to tell all to.

Here is my predicament, I have a fantastic life, I have a secure job which im lucky enough to enjoy and I also run my own business in the entertainment industry which enables me to travel and have some great fun. I have no ties, no baggage, no problems, no ghosts in the closet and no phobias, apart from hair in food and grotty feet, I draw a line there.

I want to find someone to share this life and fun with and someone who wants to be open, honest and sharing in return, someone who has the inspiration and motivation to make the most of the time we have on this earth, someone with independence and the ability to be close at the same time, someone who can keep up with me as well, I party, I dance, I do a lot of things it probably sais I should not realy do in the rule book (not bad things I hasten to add).

Its taken me a long time to reach my present state of mind and I am very happy I have discovered it, I thought I would find someone like minded very easily on here, I thought most people forty plus may have reached this Utopia, sadly this is far from true as my six encounters and numerous email buddies on here have proven.

I am not sure anyone will tick all the boxes, what I do know is I need to find someone that I will "want" to share life with, that has not happened for a while.

All this babble has a purpose, I hope it allows you to understand that I am sincere, genuine, honest and caring, the six dates I have had are all very keen to meet me again, two of them a little bit to keen but it is not going to happen sadly, they all repeat what I have just said, one even said I was probably the nicest guy she had ever met and couldn't understand how I was single, I am sorry this all sounds very conceited but whats the point of beating around the bush. I don't proclaim to be a stud but I am a very nice person and am very different, I am honest.

I have come to the conclusion just lately that appearance is a very very important part of a relationship, it allows you to forgive some of the boxes that are not getting ticked and, though you shouldn't ignore incompatability, physical attraction does enable you to be a little more "flexible" shall we say.

This was all a long winded way of saying that I am flicking through this place now looking at photos and saying, "she is well nice, fancy her, wow !! "and so on but I hope you understand it is not a neanderthal grunt, I am just being completely honest and looking at people who make me go bumpity bump inside.

I have no idea if we would be compatible, not a clue, I know I fancy the pants of you though and thats a good start :-)

Well, at least you know I am honest in this place that is glazed in bull s*"t.

Would love to hear from you.


Saturday, 29 January 2011

Cinderpunzel: the romantic adventures of a modern day princess

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll begin . . .

Once upon a time there was a princess named Cinderpunzel. (Gifted! Said her parents. Split personality. Said her doctors). But despite being beautiful, and only slightly confused, Cinderpunzel was very sad.

“Oh Fairy Godmother, how shall I ever find my perfect prince when I can’t even leave the castle? These glass slippers are simply murder to walk in and besides I keep tripping over my hair!”

And with that, Cinderpunzel’s fairy godmother appeared before her looking ever so slightly dishevelled and grumpy. In fact she looked a lot like Nessa from Gavin and Stacey. Funny that.

“Why Fairy Godmother, is that straw in your hair? And grass stains on your knees?” asked Cinderpunzel innocently.

“Wotzittoyouifitis? Only I was a bit busy when you called so hurry up would you.”

“Well, you see I’ve searched the whole fairytale kingdom and I still can’t find my handsome prince . . .”

Fairy godmother could see Cinderpunzel was on the verge of a very unattractive, and time-consuming, attack of the snivels. She would have to act fast.

“Don’t cry Princess! It's obvious innit – you’ve been looking in all the wrong places! You wanna stop kissing frogs – that’s a myth by the way – and get on the internet! That’s where all the handsome princes are hanging out these days. I guarantee you that. Well what you waitin' for? Make sure you get a good photo mind - show a bit a tit like - and you'll be shacked up before you can say happy ever after. Or your money back” promised her fairy godmother with her fingers firmly crossed behind her back.

“And will they slay dragons for me? And shower me with rubies?”

“No, but they might take you for a pint. Maybe even some porky scratchings.”

“Oh Fairy Godmother that sounds simply splendid! I shan’t dally a second longer.”

And with that Cinderpunzel scampered up to her bedroom to find the perfect first date ball gown. Her fairy godmother heaved a sigh of relief,

“Bloody idiot. Doesn’t she know there’s no such thing as a fairytale ending? Still, it’ll keep her busy for a while.”

And with that she vanished in a puff of stale cigarette smoke.

NEWSFLASH: I am single. Again.

May the dating disasters recommence forthwith. And in the meantime a little whimsy to follow for no particular reason.