My friend Julian’s advice is unequivocal:

“Get a man.
Get your head down.
Not necessarily in that order.”

(He’s not that brave, because he sent this in an email rather than saying it to my face).

The truth is, I would love to “get a man”, as Julian puts it. But I can’t seem to find one who wants me; who I want back. And if I do find someone, it’s not for long – they have too recently been someone else’s, are married (but forget to tell you when asked outright), and it’s no fun being the rebound girl.

All of a sudden, no one wants to take me out for dinner (seemingly not being worth a starter, main course and half a bottle of wine) and arrangements are made by text – and cancelled, often at short notice, the same way.  More modern men will of course use WhatsApp or similar – because it’s free!

At the grand old age of 37, I feel  slightly sick with it all. I survey the vast majority of my friends in established relationships with first and second babies on the way and even though that’s not what I want this minute, I do want it to be an option.

A small voice in my head is getting louder. “You are 37. YOU are 37. YOU ARE 37. And you’re NEVER going to meet anyone who wants you.”

Of course I count my blessings (great family, amazing friends, lovely flat, exciting  job). I also smile in what I imagine to be a patient and saintly manner (in truth I probably look deranged) when someone asks me if I have a boyfriend yet. These are the same kind of people who pop up with helpful advice such as “Women ought to have babies before 30” and who then look at you in surprise as you reply with words to the effect of “Yes, and I’ve just ordered myself a purple unicorn with a gold horn as well, because I do love achieving the impossible, you insensitive cow.”

Do other people’s ex partners count, who all come with a book of terms and conditions the minute they sit down with you and tuck into a meal you have spent two hours cooking? “The thing about my ex” they say (cue stare into space) is that she doesn’t really want to see me with other women.” Right. Sorry, I thought she was your ex. So, why the HELL are you here? (Cue banging of pots).

Anyway, I digress.  You may have been wondering where I’ve been these past few months. Whilst I would love to say that I have been travelling to places far and wide, the truth is I have largely been to Bristol and back for studying purposes, with the odd sanity-saving trip to London thrown into the mix. And I have also been receiving feedback on this blog.

It turns out that I have some readers! Someone tapped me on the shoulder recently to announce that “their wife reads my blog” (probably to remind herself that the grass isn’t greener on the other side of the single side of the fence, the poor thing) and I have even been stopped in the course of a business lunch by a man who said that although the tone of my blog was “somewhat desperate (actually I think you mean “honest”, dear) at times”, he also thought it was lovely.  And how I smiled.

So, I have been giving you all a break from the heartbreak, but here I am again like a bad euro before the Grexit. Other bloggers may well agree that the reason for writing more is that there is little more exciting than logging on to your “stats” page (oooh, every day), to see if your blog is being viewed and from where in the world that may be.  Never let it be said that my self-esteem dangles on a (virtual) string!

So, back to it.  In the past few months, there have been numerous mini romantic mishaps, some worse than others.  In June I swore myself off what our American friends (and more and more British people, now I think of it), euphemistically and optimistically describe as “dating” for the rest of the year.   Now it’s July, I think I will stay away from the wonderful world of relationships for the rest of my life.

My understanding of this phrase was confused further when one male acquaintance divided his love life into “intimate” and “non intimate” dating, at which my mind boggled. I thought that most British people just went out with each other a few times (if you get that far of course), had a bit too much to drink,  decided that they quite enjoyed each others company and sort of went from there.  As was once said to me, the guide is “50% you can love, and 50% you can live with.”

I used to think that these percentages were wildly negative, until I realised that all I really want is someone who is willing to make me a cup of tea. And perhaps help with my tax return, because I’m a bit bored of completing them.  I rather look forward to the day that the Jersey Income Tax office writes to me with a whole new form saying “Wife’s income” which you sign after your husband has completed all the difficult bits (I am not joking), but have accepted that this is less and less likely to happen.

Hole in One

Anyway, these latest disasters won’t write about themselves!  Imagine, if you will, attending a charity lunch in the midst of a Golf Day.  If you have not been to these collective demonstrations of “Four balls”, score cards, testosterone, large amounts to drink and questionable clothing before, allow me to introduce you. In short, I found myself at lunch with one of the teams from the day and sat next to a sparkly eyed chap (sans wedding ring) who said something that I couldn’t quite discern as I took my place. By way of clarification, he raised his voice thus:   “I said YOU HAD A NICE ARSE, LOVE” he confirmed, with the helpful follow up:  “I just love women” – much in the same way I have said before “I just love crisps.”

To cut a long story short, I was asked out for a drink the following week by the gentleman in question, and being an ever hopeful sort of girl, I accepted.  Settled with a G & T, conversation turned to our personal circumstances, and I asked about his.  “I’m married”, he said.  At this point,  I wasted some Bombay Sapphire and inadvertently dry cleaned my dress. “Married, as in, separated?” I asked, “No, married”, he said cheerfully. It’s fair to say that, in a rare occurrence for me, I was speechless.  And, because I didn’t wish to appear rude (!), there I remained for half an hour, agog as he regaled me with tales from the world of seemingly long term unhappy matrimony, ending in the tear-jerker:   “At the end of the day, Sarah, men just want to be loved.”

Alas, the gin drained from my glass at this point and I made my getaway into the Co-Op (the only shop still open for bolting purposes) for a delicious tin of soup and a packet of custard creams.  Last time I saw him, we were saying our awkward goodbyes in their automatic doors which he got a bit caught up in as he turned into them the wrong way. Poignant, no?

Can we just be friends?

I am also pleased to be able to provide an  answer to the eternal question, “Can a man and a woman ever just be friends?”

Following my latest trip to London, I am able to confirm that yes they certainly can, at least until you introduce any quantity of alcohol post midnight. It’s amazing how a male acquaintance can take on a James Bond like allure when you are three gin and tonics and half a bottle of fizz to the wind and he’s wearing a dinner jacket.

Ladies, should you ever find yourself in a situation similar to the one above, I suggest you get back to your tapestry pronto or else risk ruining a beautiful friendship.  I speak from recent experience of this and one thing it has confirmed to me is the forlorn place of the female friend in the world of the single man.

You may have listened for months about their romantic exploits, let them annoy you and confound you with their utter silliness and indeed unpacked many a dishwasher load as they detail the latest loon they have dated (“She’s called Cruella and does her own conveyancing – we split the bill but I can’t wait to see her again”), but nothing will prepare you for that moment when you realise with a start that you rather like them, they’re really funny, they actually call all the time (admittedly to talk about themselves) and…. WHERE THE HELL DID THIS COME FROM?

Because it’s definitely not just the fact that you’re really tired, you have drunk more than perhaps you should and your Spanx are really cutting in at this point.

Fast forward a couple of days, and the smug glow of rose-tinted happiness you felt walking on air in St. James (London usually plays its part in my romantic disasters) has subsided when the following killer lines are delivered: “We’re really good friends, but I’m never going to ask you to marry me and you don’t even want children.” Oh. Oww. OWW. Sorry, I didn’t realise that what I may have told you about wanting children or not at one point in the last few months had me scuppered out of the “potentials” list. And who even mentioned marriage? I swear I wasn’t getting my secret wedding dress out from the loft, I was just thrilled to have someone to buy me a coffee who I enjoyed spending time with.

So, what do you say to that? I can’t come up with anything witty at the moment, because I’m still reeling a bit. But here’s what I think in the meantime:  At the end of the day, it’s 50% love and 50% you can live with. And  everyone, not only men, wants to be loved.  For now, just be my friend and make me that cup of tea.

Until next time.