Not that I’m suggesting you are idiots you understand.
I’m the idiot. Me.
I must be, after all in the past 5 months I have thrown my love life open to the scrutiny of friends, colleagues, boyfriends of friends and colleagues and even one or two random readers along the way. You’ve been with me through highs (mojitos in the park and country jaunts in a Ferarri) and lows (dead ducks and empassioned betrayal emails). You’ve learnt to respect the power of the passion kiss - as have I – and you’ve even helped me wave goodbye to my twenties and embrace my inner cougar (as well as a hot 25 year old Norwegian model-a-like. Yeah, that should have been a lot more exciting than it was. I felt like his mum).
And I have done it all in the name of the blog. Goddammit I even went to the opera with a man I met in a dodgy bar at 2am. And what I learnt from this is that when you ask your friend and erstwhile wingwoman (yes Rachel – you’re fired) whether that man who asked you to the opera last night was cute and they reassure you he was, DO NOT BELIEVE THEM. Cue excruciating three hour opera with two, yes TWO, intervals, lots of fake yawning and a hastily employed exit strategy to get out of dinner afterwards.
But I digress. Four dating sites and innumerable profile revamps later I feel I have earned my dating stripes and being a renowned public spirited individual, ahem, I am now going to share my tips with you. And for those of you smug marrieds insulated by the knowledge that you will never need to pimp yourself out online, listen up - it can happen to us all. One day you may clutch this guide to your bosom as a drowning man reaches for a piece of flotsam . . .
IN THE BEGINNING
In the beginning God made man and God made woman. But woman couldn’t meet man because woman worked in publishing/teaching/Outer Mongolia, and so God made the Internet to bring together man and woman and so Internet Dating was born.
CHOOSE YOUR WEAPON
But not all dating sites are born equal. Some are the equivalent of a squalid 5am fumble in the Dalston Jazzy (Lovestruck.com), others are a repository for the “broken biscuits, the Raggy Dolls”* if you will, of the dating world (eharmony.co.uk). Mysinglefriend.com is a light-hearted canter through a fairly representative cross-section of society and Guardian Soulmates is an opportunity to flex your writing muscles and dazzle London’s wannabe intellectuals with your sparkling wit and repartee. Or alternatively to read other people’s genuinely original and clever profiles and weep green tears of jealousy at your own pale offering.
*genuine quote describing ‘us’ ie him and me, from a man on Soulmates. Pah!
LOOK AT MOY PLOYSE
Ok, so you’ve picked your weapon of choice. Let’s assume you forwent the fumble and eschewed the Raggy Dolls but whichever you chose it’s time to perfect that pout because the MOST important thing for internet dating is a set of killer photos. But take note:
1) under no circumstances should you include a picture of your pet(s).
2) if your habitual photo face gives World Gurning Champion Tommy Mattinson the willies you might want to get practising in the privacy of your own home.
3) Try to avoid taking the very best photos of yourself ever then realising there’s a toilet just behind your right ear. In every single photo.
THE MIGHTY PEN
Boys only look at the pictures, right? Wrong! It turns out that some of them can read too. So, here are some possible approaches:
The numbers game: paint yourself as sport-mad (man alive boys love sport) with a passport to rival Michael Palin’s; name check a few lowest common denominator bands, tv shows and comedians, and pilfer some funny lines from other people’s profiles and Bob’s-your-uncle your inbox will be heaving with mail. Can’t vouch for its quality though.
The fantasy: an entirely fictitious profile gives you free reign to showcase your eloquent prose and highly original sense of humour. Must be done with conviction but can net interesting results. Seems to attract a mix of the very good and the totally nuts. Nothing in between (they’re all emailing the girls who went for the approach above).
The truth: Now, go easy with your use of the truth. And as mentioned above – don’t admit to any crazy woman pet-owning tendencies, but you never know – you might actually be a genuinely cool and interesting person. In which case you don’t need my help. Go away.
And there, dear readers, I shall leave you - polishing your pout and your prose, poised ready to launch yourself onto the unsuspecting dating world - as this post has rambled on far too long already. Part deux shall follow anon.
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
Wednesday, 22 September 2010
He looked like a capuchin monkey
Some dating statistics for the past 5 months:
Birthdays: 1 (now aged 30. Gah)
Wrinkles: multiplying. The stress!
Spots: bloody loads of them. The booze!
No. of men dated during this time: 9
Passion kisses (of the 9): 5. Kerrist. That’s quite a hit rate.
Dead pets: 1
Accusations of betrayal: just the 1, thanks.
However, to date I have been lucky enough to avoid any real horrors . . . Unlike today’s guest blogger who sent us the scoop on just a couple of her recent dates.
DATE #1
... within five minutes of meeting up with him he had told me that his wife had left him because of their huge financial problems where he'd lost £200,000, which understandably caused problems between them. How he'd been conducting a mental love affair for the past nine years (not physical) but that she died of bowel cancer last October. And how three days into their only holiday in twenty years his wife decided she'd rather live on her own!! I felt like slashing my wrists!! and wondered why she'd been with him at all. Then, when pressed, he admitted he was still living under the same roof as his wife....NEXT!!!!
DATE #2
This guy was a Jewish architect - but we'd managed to have a good line going on in email exchanges for a week or so, and although in his sixties I thought he looked pretty good - not suspecting of course that the profile photograph of himself was a good 25 years old!
I felt like running when I saw him tip toeing towards me - he looked ancient! I towered above him. He had the physique of a six year old, and I'm not sure whether his hair was real or not but it was very bouffant and bigger than his wizened little face which looked rather like a capuchin monkey . . .
As he has an interest in art I made the mistake of inviting him along to my stained glass teacher's private view of her glass exhibition. I'm not sure what she thought but I saw her looking. Twice!! So embarassing...
Birthdays: 1 (now aged 30. Gah)
Wrinkles: multiplying. The stress!
Spots: bloody loads of them. The booze!
No. of men dated during this time: 9
Passion kisses (of the 9): 5. Kerrist. That’s quite a hit rate.
Dead pets: 1
Accusations of betrayal: just the 1, thanks.
However, to date I have been lucky enough to avoid any real horrors . . . Unlike today’s guest blogger who sent us the scoop on just a couple of her recent dates.
DATE #1
... within five minutes of meeting up with him he had told me that his wife had left him because of their huge financial problems where he'd lost £200,000, which understandably caused problems between them. How he'd been conducting a mental love affair for the past nine years (not physical) but that she died of bowel cancer last October. And how three days into their only holiday in twenty years his wife decided she'd rather live on her own!! I felt like slashing my wrists!! and wondered why she'd been with him at all. Then, when pressed, he admitted he was still living under the same roof as his wife....NEXT!!!!
DATE #2
This guy was a Jewish architect - but we'd managed to have a good line going on in email exchanges for a week or so, and although in his sixties I thought he looked pretty good - not suspecting of course that the profile photograph of himself was a good 25 years old!
I felt like running when I saw him tip toeing towards me - he looked ancient! I towered above him. He had the physique of a six year old, and I'm not sure whether his hair was real or not but it was very bouffant and bigger than his wizened little face which looked rather like a capuchin monkey . . .
As he has an interest in art I made the mistake of inviting him along to my stained glass teacher's private view of her glass exhibition. I'm not sure what she thought but I saw her looking. Twice!! So embarassing...
Friday, 3 September 2010
DATEAHOLICS ANONYMOUS
Addiction. Obssession. Compulsion. No, not ridiculous names for over-priced perfume, but words that perfectly describe my current state of mind.
It’s high time I checked into rehab.
But the very idea of going cold turkey brings me out in a sweat. And how could I possibly escape? Even if they wrestled my beloved laptop off me and confiscated the iPhone that’s permanently welded to my hand I’d still be able to get on the internet at work. And that’s 9 solid hours of access to my drug of choice. Yes folks, my name is (well, you know what my name is but I’m not writing it down here in case any men I’ve dated google me) and I am a DATEAHOLIC.
You know you’re a dateaholic when:
You check your email between alarm snoozes in case someone ‘favourited’ you while you slept.
Your ugly mug is posted on no less than 3 dating websites at any given time.
You ‘relaunch’ yourself on a dating site and the old familiar faces (of people you have never met) feel like friends.
And it’s at this point you find me, slumped and shivering in a corner (quite literally for those of you who have seen me at my desk on a Friday afternoon) casting around for my next fix. It doesn’t help that I’m kind of in between sites at the moment. I’ve been MSF clean for a month now, Guardian Soulmates isn’t working for me anymore and Eharmony was heavily cut with ugly people. In fact the most enjoyment I had from that site was filling out the survey about why I was cancelling my subscription.
But the drug keeps calling me so while I try to find an untapped vein I’ll take anything to keep the withdrawal at bay. I guess that’s how in the last couple of weeks I’ve dated Pube-Arms, Lady-Fingers man. And Teeny Tiny Shoulders boy or was he Extra Large Head boy? I couldn’t decide. And how last night I came to reply to an email that was sent to me no less than 2 ½ months ago, in a desperate bid to dull the craving. I’m seeing him on Sunday (it’s not a good sign is it? He should have told me to sod off). Which should just about see me through while I hone my new MSF profile in anticipation of a fresh delivery of class A men. And if that doesn’t work? I guess I may have to try real life again. Or there’s always speed dating!
It’s high time I checked into rehab.
But the very idea of going cold turkey brings me out in a sweat. And how could I possibly escape? Even if they wrestled my beloved laptop off me and confiscated the iPhone that’s permanently welded to my hand I’d still be able to get on the internet at work. And that’s 9 solid hours of access to my drug of choice. Yes folks, my name is (well, you know what my name is but I’m not writing it down here in case any men I’ve dated google me) and I am a DATEAHOLIC.
You know you’re a dateaholic when:
You check your email between alarm snoozes in case someone ‘favourited’ you while you slept.
Your ugly mug is posted on no less than 3 dating websites at any given time.
You ‘relaunch’ yourself on a dating site and the old familiar faces (of people you have never met) feel like friends.
And it’s at this point you find me, slumped and shivering in a corner (quite literally for those of you who have seen me at my desk on a Friday afternoon) casting around for my next fix. It doesn’t help that I’m kind of in between sites at the moment. I’ve been MSF clean for a month now, Guardian Soulmates isn’t working for me anymore and Eharmony was heavily cut with ugly people. In fact the most enjoyment I had from that site was filling out the survey about why I was cancelling my subscription.
But the drug keeps calling me so while I try to find an untapped vein I’ll take anything to keep the withdrawal at bay. I guess that’s how in the last couple of weeks I’ve dated Pube-Arms, Lady-Fingers man. And Teeny Tiny Shoulders boy or was he Extra Large Head boy? I couldn’t decide. And how last night I came to reply to an email that was sent to me no less than 2 ½ months ago, in a desperate bid to dull the craving. I’m seeing him on Sunday (it’s not a good sign is it? He should have told me to sod off). Which should just about see me through while I hone my new MSF profile in anticipation of a fresh delivery of class A men. And if that doesn’t work? I guess I may have to try real life again. Or there’s always speed dating!
Friday, 30 July 2010
What The Duck?
Other titles I considered for this post included: Duck’s Sake!, Ducking Unfair!, oh and of course I Found The Catch. There had to be a catch - after all no man is that perfect - and Duck Man, as he shall henceforth be known, turned out to be no different from the rest. So I shall now attempt to do for you what I couldn’t bring myself to do for him and that is summarise ‘in straight forward sentences’ what he did wrong.
Two words: hence why.
Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I could have learned to live with it. Except I know I couldn’t. I had already mentally corrected his English, rearranged his apostrophes and glossed over instances of random capitalisation. And in fairness he took it in good part when I corrected him. He even went on to use ‘hence’ without the redundant ‘why’ tagging along but his look of utter confusion when I explained to him why it was wrong told me we could never be soulmates. Still, even a grammar nazi like me doesn’t throw away a perfectly good man just because he capitalized the word 'Freezer' in an email. No, no I managed to pick all sorts of other ludicrous holes in his personality and indeed the very fibres of his being.* These holes include, but are not limited to, the following:
The fact that he bought 9 chickens just because I mentioned I had always quite wanted some.
His ability to expound on a subject at length without needing me to interject more than once every half an hour or so.
The fact that he doesn’t believe in global warming.
But he does believe his house is haunted.
And most disturbing of all: the fact that he didn’t laugh once when I played him the Flight of the Conchords album. So shocked was I in fact that I played it again in its entirety just to check. Nothing. Not even a chuckle.
And so the awful truth began to dawn that perhaps I wasn’t going to marry this man and have his babies after all. In fact I was beginning to feel decidedly claustrophobic.
This probably wasn't the best time therefore for my dog to attack one of his ducks. His son's favourite duck no less. I say 'attack' - she merely playfully pinned it to the ground by the neck and then looked up at me as if to say, "What? We're just messing" before letting it stagger free outwardly unharmed, if a little disgruntled.
I was due to see Duck Man a couple of nights later when I got a last minute phone call to say he couldn't make it. The duck had gone into shock and he had to stay at home and care for it.
Four days later the duck died. In front of his 8 year old son.
My dog killed my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend's son's favourite duck.
Now I’ll never get to drive his Ferrari.
*I realise these are ridiculous reasons to dump someone. I may have been a bit picky.
Two words: hence why.
Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe I could have learned to live with it. Except I know I couldn’t. I had already mentally corrected his English, rearranged his apostrophes and glossed over instances of random capitalisation. And in fairness he took it in good part when I corrected him. He even went on to use ‘hence’ without the redundant ‘why’ tagging along but his look of utter confusion when I explained to him why it was wrong told me we could never be soulmates. Still, even a grammar nazi like me doesn’t throw away a perfectly good man just because he capitalized the word 'Freezer' in an email. No, no I managed to pick all sorts of other ludicrous holes in his personality and indeed the very fibres of his being.* These holes include, but are not limited to, the following:
The fact that he bought 9 chickens just because I mentioned I had always quite wanted some.
His ability to expound on a subject at length without needing me to interject more than once every half an hour or so.
The fact that he doesn’t believe in global warming.
But he does believe his house is haunted.
And most disturbing of all: the fact that he didn’t laugh once when I played him the Flight of the Conchords album. So shocked was I in fact that I played it again in its entirety just to check. Nothing. Not even a chuckle.
And so the awful truth began to dawn that perhaps I wasn’t going to marry this man and have his babies after all. In fact I was beginning to feel decidedly claustrophobic.
This probably wasn't the best time therefore for my dog to attack one of his ducks. His son's favourite duck no less. I say 'attack' - she merely playfully pinned it to the ground by the neck and then looked up at me as if to say, "What? We're just messing" before letting it stagger free outwardly unharmed, if a little disgruntled.
I was due to see Duck Man a couple of nights later when I got a last minute phone call to say he couldn't make it. The duck had gone into shock and he had to stay at home and care for it.
Four days later the duck died. In front of his 8 year old son.
My dog killed my soon-to-be-ex-boyfriend's son's favourite duck.
Now I’ll never get to drive his Ferrari.
*I realise these are ridiculous reasons to dump someone. I may have been a bit picky.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Shit My Mum Says
Move over Craig David my new inspiration and muse is the great Justin Halpern of 'Shit My Dad Says' fame. If you haven't come across this phenomenon yet I urge you to google it pronto. And in the meantime I shall shamelessly rip him off for your blogging pleasure...
So....mothers, mums, mams, mas and mummys. Whatever you call them they gave life to us all. They nurtured us, fed, bathed, cuddled and cared for us; showering us with a seemingly endless supply of love no matter how stinky our nappy, or embarrassing our tantrum. What could be more sacred than the bond between mother and daughter?
Except I don't think my Mum read that bit of the idiot's guide to motherhood. I think she got bored and started reading 'how to lose friends and alienate people' instead. How else can you account for some of the shit that my Mum has said in the six months that I have been single? For example:
On living alone with dogs in London:
I'm just worried that your friends will stop asking you to go out because you always say no and that you'll end up a lonely old spinster. You don't want to end up like that woman who had her toe chewed off by her dog.
On my brother and his wife getting a divorce:
Well who knows what their reasons are. Maybe she wasn't giving him sex?
On relationship advice:
You do say sorry don't you? Never forget the power of sorry. Because I remember a certain young lady who swore that hell would freeze over before she would ever say sorry.
(MUM! I strongly suspect I was 16 when I said that!)
On needing her mother-of-the-bride moment:
If you DARE run off to Vegas and get married I will kill you.
(I had been seeing this man for TWO weeks)
On enjoying my independence:
Oh my god! You're not going to be a single parent are you?
On why I'll never keep a man:
Mum: I do worry about your black moods.
Me: What black moods?
Mum: Well you told me you were in a black mood last weekend when you went to see J.
Me: I was in a grump. It took me a whole hour to travel 1 mile in Friday evening traffic. A grump. It's different.
It's clear my Mum knows just where to stick the knife. And twist it. Truly - it's an art form. Are all mothers so skilled? What shit does your mum say? Answers on a postcard please. Or in the comments section below. Yep, down a bit and to the right...you can't miss it.
So....mothers, mums, mams, mas and mummys. Whatever you call them they gave life to us all. They nurtured us, fed, bathed, cuddled and cared for us; showering us with a seemingly endless supply of love no matter how stinky our nappy, or embarrassing our tantrum. What could be more sacred than the bond between mother and daughter?
Except I don't think my Mum read that bit of the idiot's guide to motherhood. I think she got bored and started reading 'how to lose friends and alienate people' instead. How else can you account for some of the shit that my Mum has said in the six months that I have been single? For example:
On living alone with dogs in London:
I'm just worried that your friends will stop asking you to go out because you always say no and that you'll end up a lonely old spinster. You don't want to end up like that woman who had her toe chewed off by her dog.
On my brother and his wife getting a divorce:
Well who knows what their reasons are. Maybe she wasn't giving him sex?
On relationship advice:
You do say sorry don't you? Never forget the power of sorry. Because I remember a certain young lady who swore that hell would freeze over before she would ever say sorry.
(MUM! I strongly suspect I was 16 when I said that!)
On needing her mother-of-the-bride moment:
If you DARE run off to Vegas and get married I will kill you.
(I had been seeing this man for TWO weeks)
On enjoying my independence:
Oh my god! You're not going to be a single parent are you?
On why I'll never keep a man:
Mum: I do worry about your black moods.
Me: What black moods?
Mum: Well you told me you were in a black mood last weekend when you went to see J.
Me: I was in a grump. It took me a whole hour to travel 1 mile in Friday evening traffic. A grump. It's different.
It's clear my Mum knows just where to stick the knife. And twist it. Truly - it's an art form. Are all mothers so skilled? What shit does your mum say? Answers on a postcard please. Or in the comments section below. Yep, down a bit and to the right...you can't miss it.
Love is Blind...LITERALLY!
Hello blogettes! Long time, no see. Sorry about that. HackneyGirl has been "otherwise engaged" and I've been...well...on holiday perfecting my negress tan. All I can say is thank fuck for Datefatigue holding the fort and selflessly subjecting herself to some serial courtship!
Alas I bring you sad news, for I have just this week retired from the terrifying world of dating. No, not because I have finally accepted my destiny as terminally single cat-lady but because...STOP PRESS...I have met my match. The truth is, after all these interweb dating shenanigans and hours of my life devoted to making my profiles appear cool and my emails appear cooler, it turns out I'd been unwittingly dating my now boyfriend for months. Sound retarded? Yes, well that's because it is.
The best bit is that absolutely nobody found this news suprising apart from me. Actually most of my friends laughed in my face, belmed at me and sighed "finally". For my part, I am still a little bit surprised every day that the man who earnt himself the moniker Not-Your-Boyfriend is, in fact, Now-My-Boyfriend. This is a guy I've known for eight long years, most of which he's spent in a sealed box marked "not in this lifetime" (in my head..I've not quite reached that level of lunacy! Yet.) and the whole thing scares the shit out of me. Whoever said "better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" is a dick. What if I lose one of my best friends, huh? Didn't think of that, did you, Tennyson? Oh well, too late now. So I have spent the last week perfecting a game-plan and this is it:
DO. NOT. FUCK. IT. UP.
That's the plan. I'll keep you posted...
Meantime, to you all I say: open your eyes - you never know what ..or who.. might be lurking right under your nose.
And to my mother I say: IN YOUR FACE! Now where's my double bed?
Alas I bring you sad news, for I have just this week retired from the terrifying world of dating. No, not because I have finally accepted my destiny as terminally single cat-lady but because...STOP PRESS...I have met my match. The truth is, after all these interweb dating shenanigans and hours of my life devoted to making my profiles appear cool and my emails appear cooler, it turns out I'd been unwittingly dating my now boyfriend for months. Sound retarded? Yes, well that's because it is.
The best bit is that absolutely nobody found this news suprising apart from me. Actually most of my friends laughed in my face, belmed at me and sighed "finally". For my part, I am still a little bit surprised every day that the man who earnt himself the moniker Not-Your-Boyfriend is, in fact, Now-My-Boyfriend. This is a guy I've known for eight long years, most of which he's spent in a sealed box marked "not in this lifetime" (in my head..I've not quite reached that level of lunacy! Yet.) and the whole thing scares the shit out of me. Whoever said "better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all" is a dick. What if I lose one of my best friends, huh? Didn't think of that, did you, Tennyson? Oh well, too late now. So I have spent the last week perfecting a game-plan and this is it:
DO. NOT. FUCK. IT. UP.
That's the plan. I'll keep you posted...
Meantime, to you all I say: open your eyes - you never know what ..or who.. might be lurking right under your nose.
And to my mother I say: IN YOUR FACE! Now where's my double bed?
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
RIP 4am guy
I didn't think I would be posting for a while but it turns out that just cos you have a 'boyfriend' (I'm struggling somewhat with that word at the moment) the spadework of the past few months doesn't necessarily vanish overnight. There is also a fair amount of dating 'admin' to deal with if you do decide to retire but more of that later...
For now, imagine my surprise when, just as I am trying to adjust to the good life (4 dogs, 3 ducks, 2 sports cars and a house in the country), my phone chirrups at 1.30am with a message from a man I had not heard from in months suggesting he take me out for dinner in a couple of weeks. I'm sorry. Is it ok to send such messages in the wee small hours? He got short shrift. He is not, however, the only man to rudely awaken me from my beauty sleep recently (via the medium of text. Not in an exciting way). Just a few weeks ago I received this message at 4am: "I'm massive and feared my sneaky hackney half...no wonder you pump that sausage dog full of 'roids! x" He didn't get a second date either.
More surprising still was the text I received at 9.15am (yes, AM) last Friday from an unknown number. Unknown purely because I recently had my phone stolen in another unfortunate man-related incident. In fact I knew exactly who it was. Yes ladies. It was 4am guy. Or taxi man. Or fireworks snog man. However you like to fondly recall him he was my hot Passing Clouds lover who, not heard of since the evening of the inappropriate text message, had, I thought, vanished from my life forever along with my stolen phone. Yet here he was resurrected in all his glory and looking for a weekend of passion with yours truly. I won't lie to you; I did a small victory dance in front of the mirror, chanting 'HA HA I WIN' repeatedly whilst applying my make up. I then immediately replied with the lame pretence that I didn't know who it was thereby appearing to be both desperate and a slag who has any number of men booty calling her of a Friday morning. He vanished once more but I was confident I hadn't heard the last from him.
Fast forward to 1am Saturday night and I'm standing in my new man's kitchen tucking into my fifth mojito (he knows how to keep me happy) when my phone buzzes on the counter next to him and he picks it up saying excitedly, 'ooh you've got a message'. Mercifully he passed it straight over without stopping to read it (damn you iPhone text display - the scourge of extra marital activity) and while I took a perverse pleasure in stringing him along for a bit in the end it gave me no small amount of joy to send him packing.
RIP 4am guy.
For now, imagine my surprise when, just as I am trying to adjust to the good life (4 dogs, 3 ducks, 2 sports cars and a house in the country), my phone chirrups at 1.30am with a message from a man I had not heard from in months suggesting he take me out for dinner in a couple of weeks. I'm sorry. Is it ok to send such messages in the wee small hours? He got short shrift. He is not, however, the only man to rudely awaken me from my beauty sleep recently (via the medium of text. Not in an exciting way). Just a few weeks ago I received this message at 4am: "I'm massive and feared my sneaky hackney half...no wonder you pump that sausage dog full of 'roids! x" He didn't get a second date either.
More surprising still was the text I received at 9.15am (yes, AM) last Friday from an unknown number. Unknown purely because I recently had my phone stolen in another unfortunate man-related incident. In fact I knew exactly who it was. Yes ladies. It was 4am guy. Or taxi man. Or fireworks snog man. However you like to fondly recall him he was my hot Passing Clouds lover who, not heard of since the evening of the inappropriate text message, had, I thought, vanished from my life forever along with my stolen phone. Yet here he was resurrected in all his glory and looking for a weekend of passion with yours truly. I won't lie to you; I did a small victory dance in front of the mirror, chanting 'HA HA I WIN' repeatedly whilst applying my make up. I then immediately replied with the lame pretence that I didn't know who it was thereby appearing to be both desperate and a slag who has any number of men booty calling her of a Friday morning. He vanished once more but I was confident I hadn't heard the last from him.
Fast forward to 1am Saturday night and I'm standing in my new man's kitchen tucking into my fifth mojito (he knows how to keep me happy) when my phone buzzes on the counter next to him and he picks it up saying excitedly, 'ooh you've got a message'. Mercifully he passed it straight over without stopping to read it (damn you iPhone text display - the scourge of extra marital activity) and while I took a perverse pleasure in stringing him along for a bit in the end it gave me no small amount of joy to send him packing.
RIP 4am guy.
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