Sunday, 28 February 2010


I'm still seeing him. I daren't count, but it must be what... seven weeks now? That’s a lifetime in my social world.

Living, as I do, by the 'No Expectations, No Disappointments' diktat, I always expect the next date, or even the next text, to be the last. But this...this... er...relation... – no, let's call it friendship - seems to be going on and on.

You see, we manage to connect on a variety of different levels: intellectually, comedically, nutritionally, religiously, and politically.

You might, however, have noticed that I've left out one very crucial connection in my description of our association: the element about which I am prone to crow, gush and blah on about loudly and explicitly most of the time.

So am I not commenting on it because it's so mind-blowingly-off-the-scale- fantabulastic that I don't want to share it with anyone but him and my "Whoops! they’re-on-the-floor-again" pillows, or am I resisting discussing the subject because frankly, although it's good, it's not quite good enough.

And if you connect on the former levels, how important is the latter? (Carrie Bradshaw moment...)

I walked out of my first marriage because everything was fine except the sex. I rushed into my second marriage because the sex was awesome and therefore unsustainable.

So what is really important in a relationship? A comfortable conglomerate, methinks.

If all you want to do is gnaw each other's flesh off but when you're sated you have nothing much to talk about, that ain't gonna work long-term, is it?

But if you drift towards the boudoir while still deep in conversation, does that mean you don't really fancy each other?

Current Squeeze and I have actually stopped mid-sexual stream to chat about something completely unrelated to the task at hand. Does this means our brains are not fully engaged in whatever our bodies are doing? Or does it mean that we are so homogenized that we can morph between thought and sensation in one seamless move?

For now, I shan’t question it any more. I’ll just enjoy it and go with the flow.

On a totally unrelated matter, I often wonder if I’m having more fun that my daughters. I certainly think I’m having more sex. They’re both married with 2.5 children so they’re hardly likely to be feeling flirty, flighty and fabulous wearing old track suit bottoms with a baby on each hip and a husband who’s turning the house upside down ‘cos he’s lost his keys again.

I, on the other hand, am swanning serenely about my apartment wearing nothing but some pink and black dental floss and a shpritz of Chanel no. 5 behind each ear, sipping champagne from a crystal flute while waiting for my paramour to call.

It wasn’t always like this. I, too, was once a harassed housewife but I paid my dues, survived the tricky years and earned my freedom.

And best of all, I still feel good.

So yes, for now 'good' is definitely good enough.

Wednesday, 10 February 2010


A girlfriend once told me - so it must be true - that you should Never Ever sleep with anyone before you’ve dated them at least six times. They’ll think you’re a slut and you’ll never hear from them again.

“Six dates?!” I gulped gargling into my Chardonnay. SIX DATES? That could be Six Weeks? Or Six Months? And if you’re gagging for it, you’ll want to jump him in Six Minutes. And if you’re not, Six Years would still be too soon.

So what is the theory behind this so-called Six Date Rule which, according to Google, doesn’t even exist?

It’s a lure, innit. Treat ‘em mean and all that tosh. Keep ‘em on a promise. Insinuate everything and give away nothing. But can this kind of behaviour not backfire? Blokes do have a rather low attention span and unless they’re extremely keen on buying you endless dinners and getting precious little but a peck and a thank you in return, they may get bored and go looking elsewhere.

From my vast and varied experience, chemistry, unlike photography, does not develop. It’s either there or it isn’t in the first nanosecond of setting eyes on someone. And if chemistry is present, it is human nature and animal instinct to want to explore it further, which usually involves ripping each other’s clothes off a lot sooner than after six dates.

There is, however, the deliciously tantalizing aspect of anticipation. For once you’ve crossed the line, you’ll never enjoy that heady innocent maybe again.

I’m currently engaged in observing the Six Date Rule, more by circumstance than design. Being unable to invite him home due to building works has become a form of self-preservation.

Date 1: Meet for lunch. Check each other out in broad daylight. Tick.

Date 2: Dinner in expensive restaurant. Good conversation. Snog in car. Tick.

Date 3: Cinema and snack after. Longer snog in car. Big Tick.

Date 4: Supper and Scrabble in nearby wine bar. Works nearly finished. Bit of wriggle on the freshly-Hoovered sofa.

Date 5: Theatre and dinner. School night so can’t be late.

Date 6: I’m cooking for him on Valentine’s Night. This might be it...