Bored of online dating



This week I deleted all of my online dating profiles. Two non-dodgy profiles plus the dodgy site profile. Gone!

Seems a bit counter-intuitive when I have plenty of time on my hands and ample time to dedicate on online interaction.

I’m just tired of it all, though. Sick of it, really.

The non-dodgy profiles hadn’t delivered anyone who interested me. I got lots of interest, lots of messages, and 99% of them bored me to tears.

The dodgy website – well – I was Miss Popular (analytically, if not modestly). And yes, it did dish up a few decent dates. Lots of nutters, but some nice guys. It met my need for a fix of man every now and then (or, in clusters, as it usually turned out).

But I’ve had enough of being confronted with photos of men’s bits in all sorts of states. It’s just – aaaargh.

Call me old-school, but I like a bit of mystery. I like my imagination to be sparked. Getting straight to the, errr, point just puts me off. Especially if it’s all rather unattractive.

Aside from the forest of erections, I also got sick of the shit emails from people I patently wouldn’t ever be interested in even if they were last man on earth.

Men’s egos are fascinating. I’m all for a cheeky approach to someone slightly out of your league – why not? But someone twenty years younger than you, smarter than you, with a profile light-years distant from yours – what? Seriously? Do you think there’s a good chance I’ll ever reply??

And the guys who emailed thinking I was some sort of visiting businessman service. “I’ll be in your area on Thursday night and I’d like to see you xxx” just make me want to punch them. Are you kidding me?

Yes, random stranger, let me just clear my diary, schlep over to your hotel to meet someone whose name I don’t even know, whose profile is sparse to say the least, who probably has a wife and kids tucked away wherever he lives – for a session of unrewarding hotel room sex where you’ll struggle to keep it up because you’ve been driving all day and the chances of me having an orgasm are about the same as me scoring the next Chanel advert instead of Keira Knightly.

I’ll pass, thanks. Every SINGLE time. Just fuck off, watch some porn and jack yourself off into a hotel towel like everyone else.

Right. Clearly ranting!

This is exactly why I’ve deleted my profiles… the whole thing is making me far more acidic and unpleasant than I wish to be.

I’m tired of judging men, rejecting them, or not rejecting them initially and then rejecting them later, or not rejecting them at all, going out with them, having a nice time, having some quite nice sex but not stellar sex, then feeling like an emotional iceberg because they are not what I really want, and what I really want is for them to fuck off on a Sunday morning at a decent hour.

At the moment I’m not even that interested in sex. The thought of a two-hour session makes me tired. The reality breaks me. So what’s the point in going looking for it? Or being online looking like I am looking for it?

I’m even fed up with the guys that I have slept with texting me when I’ve said again and again that I’m not in a fit state to be dating at the moment (this means “go away”). Then I feel guilty because they said “I’m not looking to hook up, I just thought you were lovely and wanted to check you were OK”.

Aaaargh!! Don’t think I’m lovely! I’m not! [runs for the hills]

(Also – yeah right – you totally wanted to hook up. Bad luck – I decided you bored me. Sorry. I did try and let you down gently… you just didn’t want to see it)

So there we are. A messy bundle of reasons why I can’t be doing with any online dating.

I expect I’ll be back next year sometime. Give it six months, when spring rolls around and I’m bored without any male attention and I’m hopefully a lot better and able to fully participate in marathon bouts of sex.

I’m predictable like that, at least.

In which Mr Hereford collects his coat and I give him Word tips


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So Mr Hereford just popped in to collect his jacket, which he left behind last Saturday.

In an ideal world, this would have led to some impromptu carefree bonus sex…in my world, he had a horrid cold and felt like pants, so just stayed for a cup of tea.

Plus I hadn’t shaved my legs, was wearing my slobbiest jumper, and the house smelt alluringly of chana dhal…

I did enquire as to exactly how awful he was feeling. If he’d felt alrightish, I said, we could have gone and grabbed something to eat (and I could have trial-runned my new faux-leather skirt). But he just wanted to go home and get into bed with a Lemsip.

Given that the last thing I need at the minute is a horrifying virus, I kept my distance. I also don’t need to wear myself out completely like I did last Saturday – so a rain-check is fine with me.

Walking past my desk, he admired my in-progress Technic Lego car (which he thought was Meccano…Umm no. It’s not. It’s Lego).

Now, I get a tiny bit enthusiastic whenever anyone shows the barest interest in whatever model I’ve made, and this one is all invented out of my own head.

I showed him the differential, the engine block and crank shaft, and the start of the rack-and-pinion steering. I even switched on the engine so he could see the components moving.

When I looked at him, I realised he was standing there looking at me somewhat agog – literally, mouth open, mumbling “wow”.

“Umm yeah” I scratched my head sheepishly and put the Lego down. “I’m not exactly a normal girl…” and slunk off rather embarrassedly towards the kettle.

As he drank his tea he told me how his writing was going. He was saying that he’d decided to change a main character’s name, and this had made loads of work for himself.

I sipped my G&T, and just said “find and replace….?”

Seriously. He hadn’t heard of find-and-replace. Seriously.

I grabbed my laptop, which at that moment had a spreadsheet open that I was building for fun (oh god get a life, girl), opened Word, then demonstrated in about five seconds the magic of find-and-replace.

He was entirely dazzled.

As I was feeling generous, I took a punt that he wouldn’t’ve heard about using headers to compile an automatic table of contents, either. Since I thought this might be a rather useful thing for a writer to know how to do, what with chapters and all, I demo’d that quickly too.

“Oh God, I wish I’d known this in July before I finished my dissertation!!” he sighed. (He’s just completed a part-time Masters).

I felt embarrassed for showing him!

I did, however, enjoy having a good-looking man sat at my table drinking tea chatting to me. His brain isn’t like mine so I’m not sure he’d ever really be able to keep up with me, but hey he’s pretty fit!

So I said when he was feeling better he’d have to come over again. (He lives in a house-share so I shan’t be visiting him…). Held my breath and kissed him on the cheek, and waved him goodbye, after checking he’d definitely got his jacket this time…

God I am such a complete and utter dork!


A certain recovery of equilibrium


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Recovery is a peculiar thing.

I do numbers all day part time for a living (at the moment, anyway). I like lines and trends and clearly defined progression, and maybe a touch of linear regression. I like equations for my lines, basically.

I am currently here, at point a, and I want to get better so that I am there, at point b. In my head this is achieved directly with no deviating and absolutely no messing about, i.e. in a linear fashion.

The reality, of course, doesn’t match my theoretical mathematical models.

Tuesday was a day gift-wrapped from hell – a massive dip in an otherwise upward trajectory.

None of it was over-dramatisation for the sake of a blog. It was just a very tired, defeated, unhappy girl.

It also made a few people other than me rather worried. Cousin Z got a tearful email and rang me. Parents were decidedly worried and rang me. Sis rang me that evening. FF read my post and rang me in tears (I’m so sorry).

I was in such a mess in the morning that I couldn’t bear to text anyone. Not even a tiny little “help“. I was exhausted and I ached all over and I couldn’t sleep properly, and I kept crying. The second anyone was nice to me, I knew, I’d be off crying and possibly wouldn’t stop.

The unfortunate Prof bore rather a lot of it that afternoon, having unwittingly texted me and then having read my “I’m so miserable” post. We established there wasn’t a decent emoji to convey a virtual hug.

I went to buy a sandwich and a lot of crisps (mind over body) and possibly also a Snickers, and drove to a very remote corner of the Cotswolds and parked up in the wind and rain, wishing I was actually out walking in it.

Mystifyingly, this remote spot also had a halfway decent 3G signal, so the Prof chatted to me via text as my car rocked in the gales and I ate my prawn cocktail crisps. I think I only cried for a little while, up there. Guys don’t normally like crying girls very much, even if they are just their mate, so I refrained from texting “oh god can’t stop crying” as I was trying quite hard to cling on to my sanity and he was helping me a great deal.

So that was Tuesday. It was shit.

Wednesday was much better. Woke up – hello!

Wednesday also brought a suitable clarity of perspective, which enabled me to analyse what on earth had happened the day before. I am not given to falling apart quite so messily. Reasons had to be found!

So yeah. Hormones. Bastards.

Since I have a clever gadget that means I don’t do the usual girl / monthly drama, I fail to recognise it on the rare occasions it creeps up on me. Maybe once every 6 months?

But, boy, this time it hit me like a tonne of bricks. Usually I suss what’s going on when I have a little cry at the end of 24 Hours in A&E, and that’s pretty much it. No harm done.

However, hormones plus a bad ME day = nuclear apocalypse

I’ll have to watch out for that… FF thought that maybe Mr Hereford had jogged my gadget and it had released a burst of hormones. It’s not out of the question. He certainly got a bit too poky in that area!

Mainly I’m cross that I ended up being a miserable twat because of PMT.

Yes! Great! Girls who emotionally dump all over their male friends when they are out of their minds on hormones are just the most popular people ever on the entire planet.

Luckily, the Prof has been rewarded for his kindness by getting to go on lots of dates this week. This evening’s, apparently, is entirely lickable. May getting plenty of gorgeous girls on his plate make up for the dipshit Cotswolds “one says she’s a friend of mine…”.

And here, at the end of the week, a day back in the office (OK – yes, a half day).

A good day. Plenty done, meetings held, algorithms looking good, got a seat on both trains, haircut complimented yet again (I don’t get tired of that). Back home, and I don’t feel like death.

Actually I feel – dare I say it – kind of normal?? In a solid “B-” sort of way. I know I’m feeling better because I make silly and daft lighthearted comments which I just can’t conjour up when I’m feeling crap.

So yes. I may have had a radical dip from the line earlier this week. Thursday wasn’t awesome either, another tiny dip (as opposed to a Mariana trench-size Tuesday dip).

But the end point of this week is higher than the start, so the line of best fit is up, up, up…

Long may it continue!

(Also – The Martian – if you’re not going to see it – read it! Immediately!)

I don’t want to be myself

Today I do not want to be myself. Not at all.

I want to inhabit another body and leave this one very far behind.

I’m tired of the D-, D+ days. I’m about as useful as a sack of shit.

I don’t want to find myself sat at my desk trying to organise my brain enough to work in any productive way, pretending to people that I’m OK, feeling so tired to the core of my bones and so woolly-headed that I sit and cry into my paperwork which is just meaningless printouts of things I haven’t got the energy to care about.

I don’t want to be in bed fully clothed at 11.30 in the morning, unable to sleep despite being crushed with tiredness.

This isn’t living. This is just fucking shit.

I’m so angry, so frustrated, I want to scream, I want to run away from myself, I want to not have a list in my head of all the things I haven’t done for people this year, a list of how crap a friend I’ve been, how completely and utterly self-absorbed I bloody am.

I want to do the things I need to to sort my life out, and not have them feel like an insurmountable mountain that I just hide from.

I am just glad I’m on my own and not making other people miserable by osmosis. The only thing I can’t do is give myself a hug and tell myself it’s going to be OK.

I wish I could escape myself.

A date with Mr Hereford



Feeling a smidge broken this morning…

Quite obviously that thought is followed by quite a large smug grin, but it is substantially tempered by the knowledge I have definitely overdone it.

Also, I have to look reasonably alert and not like I’ve been a reprobate by the time mum and dad come to go out for lunch. So. Two hours then! May need a nap…


Yesterday evening saw me curling my hair, as I had plenty of time to kill. Ill-advisedly, as it turned out. Newly-coloured hair in lovely condition doesn’t so much like being curled.

Another text barrage ensued to the unfortunate Prof. “It looks like a bird’s nest!!”

Then I shamelessly abused his free time by being a total girl, getting him to check my skirt wasn’t indecently short and my jumper didn’t make me look like a square. He deserves some sort of medal. Especially when I said “I’m in a hurry, ignore the tits!!!” Honestly. Sometimes my manners desert me.

Off I went, Louboutins in bag. Got lightly splashed by a lorry as I walked to the pub. Great!

I knew I was going to be there first as Mr H had said he was running 10 minutes late.

The manager showed me to my table, and went to get me some bread when I asked ever so nicely if he had a biscuit or something I could eat before I started drinking. I thanked him when he brought it over. “Any chance of a G&T…?” I smiled at him winningly. (I’m really good at winning smiles to people I don’t fancy). He also assured me he’d keep an eye out for my dinner companion. Awww.

I texted the Prof rather grumpily about when men are nervous before dates, because sometimes they say things that make me roll my eyes. Then I shoved my phone in my bag alongside my flats because a seriously yummy man was approaching my table, and yes, it was actually my date!

He sat down, apologised for being late, complimented me. He was tall, neat but cool hair, grey trousers, black fitted top, leather jacket. Twinkly eyes. Oh I am a sucker for a well-dressed man with twinkly eyes….

“Right” I said. “We’re basically going to have to pretend that my hair doesn’t look ridiculous!”.

Way to go with an opening line.

He laughed and had no idea what I was talking about. Happily this set the tone for dinner. Lots of laughing, quite a lot of me saying slightly daft things, talking about cheese.

We had starters and main course, and I couldn’t eat more than half of my main course. We split the bill and I said that I’d got coffee at home. He seemed genuinely surprised that I complimented him and told him he was very attractive, which to me seemed blindingly obvious.

He drove us home, after we’d picked up a bottle of wine.

We sat on the sofa, had a drink, chatted. I curled up my legs and informed him that if there was going to be any kissing that it would not be started by me. Batted my eyelashes and looked (what I hoped was) alluringly at him.

“You’ll need to sit here, then, if there’s going to be kissing”

I happily moved up the sofa, and he started kissing my neck.

YES! Cracking opening move. Killer. Mmmmm.

Then we moved on to actual kissing. Quite a lot of tongue. Higher tongue:lips ratio than I actually prefer, but enough lips to not make me not want to kiss.

Then he sat back and asked if I had a pack of cards.

“Errrrr, yeah, sure….” What? I wondered why. Could we not carry on with the kissing???

He fetched more wine, we sat on the rug and played cards. I was damned if I was not going to hitch my skirt up.

There was a lot of laughing over the cards because I kept taking my turn in the wrong place, mainly due to alcohol and not properly paying attention.

Happily, a game of Trumps became strip-Trumps. This was great until I realised I was going to have to take my tights off and sit there in my bra and knickers in full view… nooooo hide the thighs!!

I sat there with my arms wrapped around my legs, with him laughing at my being so ridiculous. “Whatever are you doing?!” he laughed at me, stripped down to his boxers and reclining on the rug.

“It’s alright for you” I said, leaning over and kissing his stomach. “You’re fucking gorgeous…”

“So are you…” he said.

The only reply to that, really, was to remove his boxers and get better acquainted with the contents, deploying the correct lip:tongue ratio.

I found that he asked me quite a lot what I liked. My brain said “just do it and find out! You’ll know if I like it!”. My mouth said “everything that we’ve been doing”.

“Can I go down on you?” he asked. OF COURSE YOU BLOODY CAN! “Mmm, yes please…”

Eventually we gravitated upstairs. I found him to be another chap who is not always rock-solid at the critical time, which is a source of general bemusement to me when everything else has been very hot and very sexy and quite obviously very arousing.

He liked to do that thing when he’s on top, he’s inside you, and then he closes your legs to make it shallow. I find that kind of strange. But whatever.

Also, when a guy has been vigorously attending to you with his fingers for twenty minutes and you haven’t suggested he be more gentle (please don’t treat my bits like a piston chamber for fingers!!) , it’s going be pretty desensitised down there. So if you’re going for the shallow thing, it’s not going to do much for me apart from making me think “great! I’m having sex! yay me!”

To have a break, I went down on him again. It really was quite a pleasure. Apart from cricking my back. I’m not sure there are many things I like hearing more than “God, you are really good that that. Seriously. Oh my God…”. I don’t love hearing “what do I have do to make you come?”, because usually I don’t know. Have just the right physiology? Don’t cry when I get my toy out if you can’t work out how to do it yourself!

Then, because it had the excellent effect of producing rock-hardness, I hopped on top, and we had a fabulously uninhibited hot sweaty five minutes. Then he said “Oh God I’ve just seen your boobs again, I’m going to come…”, and did.

Then we had a sleepy cuddle, and I told him he could stay. This was possibly slightly obvious as it was 11:30pm and he’d had wine.

I broke the news to him that I would be sleeping in the spare room. I always feel like I’m kicking a puppy who wants to sleep curled up around me. However, my need for sleep always wins out. He was halfway there, and I wasn’t going to extract myself in 10 minutes when he was fully asleep and draped over me. Plus, if I haven’t decided what sort of relationship it’s going to be, I don’t do sleeping with them. Cold but true.

So I decamped to the spare room, where the gales were roaring around the end of the house and kept me awake most of the night. Also, sex has a funny effect on me, even if I haven’t come-  similar to caffeine. My brain won’t really switch off. Combined with the gales, I didn’t get much sleep.

I snuck back into my own bedroom at 7:30am. In the spirit of being a good hostess I thought perhaps I ought to take my t-shirt off and show willing and not just be a miserable cow who slept in till 10. Also, I am very aware that morning is a good time for productive rock-solidness…

A sleepy cuddle quickly turned into my knickers being removed, and the contents investigated (hurray). My legs got moved across his torso, and then I got moved on top of him, face up, so that he could slip in from below, as it were. Not one I’ve experienced before. It was very sexy, but prone to slipping outage.

My arms were tingling and sore from the activities of the night before, and I could already tell I’d overdone it. I requested some activity on my back, which was forthcoming after I’d been down on him again (and got another gold star). The activity was finger-based, and vigorous. Fed up of being kind of nearly at the brink five times, I announced that my toy was required. I duly fetched it, positioned his hand and it, and five minutes later my eyes nearly popped out of my head.

Then we had a snooze. Actually, he went back to sleep. I just dozed. I told him before he nodded off that my parents were coming for lunch at 12:30.

Decided that a bath was probably a good idea for my back, so slipped out and jumped in a hot pond of bubbles. Then turned the bedroom light on and got dressed, suggesting that he might like a shower. He got to see dressed-up me last night; this morning it’s jeans and a t-shirt and hair blessedly back to normal.

“Sorry” he said good-naturedly, “I just feel very relaxed in your company!”

We had breakfast and chatted. I told him I’d been married, and I did the thing I always do when I end up having that conversation, which is saying “I left him!” in case men think I’m a sad embittered divorcée who has a giant chip on her shoulder. Nip that in the bud. So actually I probably sound like a heartless bitch! Heheh.

He asked for a kiss goodbye, which of course I was happy to provide.

The kiss quite clearly turned into a snog by the front door.

“We are not starting something we can’t finish” I said, breaking off, smiling.

“Awww” he said, coming back for some more kissing.

I smacked his bottom, and laughed. “Go home!” I told him, and off he went.

I’m definitely going to pay for the rest of the day (and possibly tomorrow) for the exertions. Stupid illness. Stupid body. Feeling slow and achy and tingly arms and tired. Some of that is normal post-sex lethargy; some is not.

My conclusion is I’m still not well enough for such shennigans, but you’ve got to try it to know! And it was a lot of fun.

On telling people they matter


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I woke up this morning to the news of what happened in Paris.

This isn’t intended to be a polemic on terrorism, or religion, or political or military involvement in other countries. My personal views on those are just that – personal. Apart from my well-known atheist position, of course.

I am terribly sad that so many people’s joyful Friday night out, having meals with friends or family or lovers, watching music that they loved, out at the football, should end in such an unthinkable way. I am sad for the families and friends of those people who are suddenly not there.

It isn’t something I can comprehend, and it is not something I would presume to come close to understanding. It does make me very angry with the world, about the excuses factions use for killing other people.

Mainly though, it serves as a horrible reminder to be grateful for what I have, to try and be a better person, to make the most out of my life in so far as I am able to.

It also reminds me to tell the people that I love that I love them.

Watching 24 Hours in A&E has the same effect. The opening sequences usually have doctors doing thoughtful short pieces to camera along the lines of ‘ you never know when bad things will happen [they should know] so tell the people that you love that you do’, or ‘wouldn’t it be nice for all of us if the last words we heard were “I love you” ‘.

I have got better at this.

In my twenties “I love you” was reserved for my husband, and just once, for Mr U. My family hadn’t ever been the sort to throw that around; not that we were unaffectionate, not at all – just not like that.

In my thirties, without someone at home to tell, I realised the world would not in fact end if I told a few more key people that they were really really important to me. It would not kill me to utter the “l” word, occasionally even when I hadn’t had a bit of wine to loosen up my emotional reticence.

After all, as I get older, life seems a little more precarious. The little gang of people I love have helped me through a lot of stuff. It seems stupid to not tell them I love them. My family have been and always are there for me, so I’ve made it a habit to tell them, often.

I haven’t quite got the hang of always telling them at the right moment, though.

I can usually be relied upon to just pronounce my affection seemingly apropos of nothing at all, which tends to take my chums somewhat by surprise. They don’t know that they’ve said something ten seconds, three seconds, a minute ago, which has made me think a string of things ending in “you’re awesome, I’m so glad you’re in my life and you’re my friend!” and then ends with me patting their arm or giving them a surprise hug and saying “I love you!”, or “it matters to me that you’re safe and happy”, which results in some prize facial expressions from my mates.

Happily they tend to love (or at least, tolerate) me too, so no harm done.

You just never know when you might not get the chance to say it again, so I’ll tell them in my own way, next time I see them.

Trains, office, skirts, spoons


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Tentatively went back into the office for the first time in what feels like years (actually a month).

Got out of bed, got my act together, ate my porridge, looked dismally at the pouring rain, train was cancelled…

Did a bit of work, got the next train, made it to the office on the bus, rocked up about 10:45.

The first thing I noticed was that my building smells exactly like an old library. I have never noticed that before. Interesting.

I walked into my office a bit sheepishly.

“Hey!!!!” “How are you?” “Your hair looks awesome!!” “It’s so nice to see you!”.

Bless the guys I work with, and the girl (it took the girl most of the time I was there to cotton on to my quite drastically different haircut. The guys always notice. This makes me laugh).

Met with my boss. For ages. Obviously lots to talk about. How I’ve been, how I am now, the long-termness of it. Build up my hours, work at home, come into the office a bit, once, twice a week, get a decent strategy in place. Then go through the huge lists of tasks we’ve got coming up. Plan how I can manage my guys effectively (that’ll be Skype).

After an hour and a half I was a bit… tired out. I was instructed to go and have a break, so went straight to my favourite lunch outlet, got a box of Mexican loveliness, and took it back to my desk. Shovelled it down, then had a quick meeting each with minions 1 and 2. Met with my boss again quickly to plan a project I need to oversee.

By 2.30 I was worn out and could feel it being taken out of me reasonably significantly. So off I went, with a small detour to try and buy a particularly gorgeous skirt I’d seen for my date with Mr Hereford. The only size they didn’t have was the one I needed… which very happily for me is the one smaller than my usual size! (diet back on track then, lost 2.5lb yesterday, hurray. God knows how what with all the cake and wine and doughnuts at the weekend)

Caught the train, texted the Prof most of the way home (which kept me awake).

The early evening turned into a discussion of the proposed starting Rock Band playlist for when I visit, with a strong basis in the very cheesy playlist I shared the other day, plus some good spots from my iTunes. When he sent the playlist through I did a dance of glee on the sofa. Ha ha!! So much of my favourite cheese!! Cheeeeeeese!

Then I compiled the list in iTunes and danced around the living room with a spoon.

(Definitely on the mend)

Mr Hereford was also texting me as I howled into my spoon, massively looking forward to meeting me tomorrow, glad that I’d booked a table, rather iffy spelling but as he told me he was looking forward to dinner with a beautiful woman and he’s really pretty and I want to lick him, I’ll let the spelling go…

The general dancing continued as I cooked my dinner, although a break from the cheese was required.

Feet up, wine, sofa, First Dates taped, happy to have been back into work, happy not to be (currently) broken because of it (and fingers crossed it doesn’t bite me tomorrow), a backup skirt (short) in mind for tomorrow evening, Gogglebox on the gogglebox, a bath, a few chapters of Birdsong, sleep.

Not too shoddy as Friday nights go!

Saturday’s task: think very very rationally before making any rash expensive purchases.

Early bath for Mr Bath



The first item on my pre-date checklist ought to have been

  • what if I don’t fancy him?

instead of worrying about whether he would fancy me (he did).

The practical application of my checklist went thusly:

  • Yes (legs still smooth, ditto armpits)
  • Didn’t bother with Spanx
  • Handbag only needed to hold heels/flats
  • Respectable with a hint of cleavage
  • Contacts
  • Yes (eyebrows fine)
  • Still don’t know but applied make-up carefully
  • Yes I have enough foundation
  • Didn’t wear red lipstick. In fact wiped off most of what I’d put on, in a sort of browny-pinky shade.
  • Hopefully the £30 will still have been well-spent…
  • Heels
  • Didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t see him looking quizzically at head
  • 10 minutes. Occupied with taking stupid selfies of me in outfit going “do you think this is OK?” to someone who is guaranteed to be having sex this evening
    • Get OVER the piano thing
  • New bra. Black Brazilian knickers which don’t strictly match precisely but will do just fine
  • A dab of silver eyeshadow and grey eyeliner
  • Didn’t wear the Louboutins. Wore the Ralph Lauren heels instead.
  • Simply could not be arsed with stockings
  • Clearly didn’t wear a corset
  • Yes
  • Yes
  • Yes
  • Yes
  • He did
  • Still not sure

I arrived at the pub at 2:58pm having changed out of my flats into my heels over the road behind a parked car, got a drink, and sat on the sofa by the log fire.

Mr Bath arrived just as I’d sat down, at 3pm exactly. Good points for punctuality.

However, he was shorter than me in my heels. To be honest, if I’d taken my heels off there wouldn’t have been much between us…

And his face wasn’t quite as cute as his profile picture.

I knew as I stood up to say hello that I didn’t fancy him, and he’d driven over an hour and a half to meet me. Dammit! Good job I hadn’t bothered going for the knockout look.

He went to get a drink, then went to the loo. My “dammit I don’t fancy him” text failed to send. I sipped my mineral water and wondered when I should say something.

Not right away, obviously, because that’s just mean.

When he returned from the gents, we chatted in a fairly desultory manner. I was wedged fairly firmly into the corner of the sofa, not inviting any contact, and (I thought) radiating waves of “I don’t fancy you”…

Don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t unattractive, he was nicely dressed, smelled nice, offered to buy me another drink. I just could not in any way picture kissing him, let alone anything more. There was no chemistry for me at all.

The desultory conversation continued. I tried quite hard to be bright and friendly and to play nicely, but there weren’t any hooks in the conversation I could grasp onto. I thought there might be one when he asked if I liked motorbikes, and I told him about my falling-off, but no, I told the story briefly and that was it. We chatted about F1 for a couple of minutes and then that too died a death.

At 3:40pm I couldn’t think of anything else to do, so I went to the ladies. Texts still not sending. You’re on your own here!

I came back downstairs, planted myself back in the corner of the sofa, noting he had edged nearer. He confessed to having been nervous before he met me, and was now in the “it’s OK we can laugh about it!” stage. Then we talked about the website, and dates, and that he’d had a few that hadn’t worked out.

I mentally gave myself a stern lecture on not having pity sex, or any other kind of sex I don’t actually want (namely, having sex with someone who would willingly do so just for the sake of having sex. Nope. Not doing that ever again.).

Then I grasped the nettle.

“I’m really sorry, but I think I should just say that I’m not feeling it… there’s no spark. I’m not really getting it from you, and I’m not feeling it myself. I’m so sorry”

Then, because I’m English and hate making people feel sad or uncomfortable, proceeded to profusely apologise for this being the state of affairs, especially his long drive, whilst not in any way backing down.

He thought I wasn’t getting a spark off him because he was nervous, which I said was not the case, and he’d hidden it very well.

It just… wasn’t meant to be. I wasn’t feeling it at all.

He was very good-natured about it, was complimentary, was surprised I was on the dodgy website, took it all very well.

We left the pub, and headed up the High Street, him looking for coffee, me to go and cross the road. Me also stumbling on my heels (because basically, I am a twat in disguise).

We did the air-hug thing goodbye, and off I tottered to find a secretive place to swap my shoes.

I pottered home, pondering whether it was just because I didn’t physically fancy him (which was true), or whether things had been impeded because I was having a mental block on the whole thing anyway which was worse than hitherto suspected.

We shall see on Saturday. Hopefully Mr Hereford will be as lickable in person as in his photo, and sparks shall fly!

Pre-date checklist


Here are the contents of my mind before I go on a date. All perfectly true.

  • If I’ve shaved my legs this morning, will they still be nice and smooth later??
  • Ditto armpits…
  • If I wear my Spanx under whatever I’m wearing to look as slim as possible, what happens if the date goes well and I need to get them off without him noticing? Does this in fact then breach the Trade Descriptions Act?? What if he takes my clothes off and goes “aaaargh!”???
  • Is my handbag big enough to fit both Spanx removed in the ladies plus my flat shoes that I’ve changed out of around the corner into my heels??
  • Should I wear an outfit that promises what he saw on the website, or something more respectable with a bit of a hint of cleavage that won’t get me glares in the pub?
  • Specs or contacts???
  • Are my eyebrows presentable?
  • WHY is my complexion so awful at the moment? NOT helpful!
  • Have I got enough foundation??? Will it be obvious??
  • Is red lipstick inappropriate for (whatever) time of day??
  • Why do I feel I have to spend £30 on getting hair ripped out from somewhere delicate on the offchance I’ll get lucky, and plan it a week in advance??
  • High heels or boots??
  • Will he notice that my roots need doing? Will he care??
  • How much time will I spend sitting on the sofa making myself not be early??
    • I miss having a piano that can distract me when I’m ready to go out but am early
  • Do jeans say “I’m not trying very hard”??
  • Which skirt is best?? What top goes with that skirt?? Why haven’t I got a daytime dress??
  • Have I tweezed off every single unwanted hair from anywhere I don’t want it??
  • Which bra should I wear? Which matching set of underwear?? Is it going to get seen??
  • What colour eyeshadow is acceptable for 3pm on a Wednesday?
  • I’m not wearing my Louboutins for a date at 3pm on a Wednesday…
  • Ditto stockings
  • Ditto a corset or any of that malarky
  • Is my bedroom remotely in a state to be seen by a stranger?
  • Is the whole HOUSE fit to be seen by a stranger??
  • Is anything remotely related to work well-hidden away?
  • Have I got condoms??
  • What if he doesn’t fancy me?
  • Why do I do this….?

Dating is like waiting for buses



I wait forever for one, and suddenly several come along at the same time. Always happens.

Who’s on the timetable this month?

Mr Bath – nice, very genuine, doesn’t look like he’s hiding anything, good smile, good spelling, good manners, low on smut. Meeting him tomorrow afternoon as he’s got a week off and jumped at the chance of a drink in the Cotswolds where I could tell him all the worthwhile sights. If I fancy him in person, this may well include the wallpaper on my bedroom wall, the contents of my bra, and the inside of my thighs.

Mr Hereford – still on for Saturday evening. Is very politely emailing me via the dodgy website and not actually being smutty at all. He is delighted I’ve agreed to meet him, and is very complimentary. I am privately delighted he wants to meet me, as the photo that he sent is very very fit, without being show-off-y. In fact, the photo made me largely want to lick him all over, so fingers crossed we get on well on Saturday. I very rarely feel so inspired by a photo.

Mr Hot – I’ve made the fatal mistake of using my one-and-only Skype account for work, and of course I’d already chatted to Mr Hot on there. There is no way to change your status at an individual level. So there I was, merrily pivoting away in Excel, and up he pops (with the sound coming out of my stereo alongside the music I’ve finally (with some friendly technical assistance) got playing out of my laptop through the stereo). I did explain I was working, but he ignored that, asking if I was better yet, telling me he thinks of me often. I say I’ll go out for dinner with him soon, he tells me good because I’m very gorgeous and fun to talk to, then descends straight into some fairly full-on smut.

Given that I’m still not completely well, and that I was also working and also texting, I couldn’t really cope with being asked if I’d started masturbating again at 12:35pm (what made him think I’d stopped? Did he think my illness meant my hand had fallen off? Mildly bemused). I ducked the question, well if saying “I am working and can’t be having this conversation now” counts as ducking. He was not to be deterred, going into his room from the poolside in sunny Dubai as he was having some difficulties in the swimming shorts area. I cut him pretty short as I was about to go out, and I like a little more mild smut build-up before we launch into the hardcore smut. I still might go out for dinner with him when he’s here, as I think it’d be amusing one way or another. Apparently I will be dessert. If I want to be, Mr Hot, only if I want to be…

The Doc – meant to be going out for dinner at some point. He has a habit of taking two weeks to reply to an email, My patience sometimes wears thin, however he is nice easygoing company and can, if he’s not tired, screw for a verrrry long time. Also has a long tongue. Heheh. Maybe I can be a little more patient…


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