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.

APPLES AND INSOMNIA

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.

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.

DATE 1
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.

DATE 2
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.

DATE 3
NAME: Yawn
HEIGHT: Didn’t notice
COST: Not much
DRUNK: Nope
KISS: ---------------------- negative
SEEING AGAIN: See above
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
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.

OOPS I DID IT AGAIN

“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.


NEXT!


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.

ONLINE NOW

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.

DON'T MAKE ME DO IT!

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??

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 . . .)

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.

THERE'S AN APP FOR THAT.

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 brain....so 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.

A WEEK IS BULLSHIT.

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.

A BOY MADE ME DO IT :(

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.

I TAKE IT ALL BACK . . .

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.

FEEL THE BURN

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?

NEWSFLASH: I’M, LIKE, SO OVER IT.

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-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

COUGARTASTIC

Cougar:

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. . .

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?

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.

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

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.

GINGER CHEST HAIR

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.

box-ticking...

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