Bollocks to this - I'm off to Dorset for the weekend.
Cliffs, gusts of wind and cream teas. Be well!!

1. Bloggers- you should have seen my therapist's face when I revealed that after thinking about it long and hard for a week and finally deciding that yes, I would ask my.. my... lover? boyfriend? manfriend? if he'd consider moving in with me - he said yes.

2. It's going to happen.
I know!

3. Perhaps as I write, said therapist is pacing up and down his living room shaking his head and wondering what to do with me.

Or not?

1. Sunday morning, there's always one place to be: in bed. Jealous cat standing in the doorway, peering in suspiciously- I know she'll learn to love him. Eventually. Maybe.

-People keep asking me how we met.
- And what do you say?
-Mmm.. through a friend...he smiles.
-We need to find something more creative. What about : we have the same dealer?
- Or: I followed her home one night after work?
- Or: we met in a professional capacity but she says I can stop paying her from the first day of next month?
- Or viceversa: I'd always wanted to give those escort agencies a try...

2. I'm still in nauseating loved up state, bloggers.

3. I think he liked his birthday villanelle..

Bloggers, I'm not dead, I'm merely busy trying to put together a birthday villanelle, which must.be.finished by tomorrow night.

I might have to resort to whisky.
Wish me luck.

Bloggers, I've been busy not working this week, and it was good.

1. I sat in the sun by the river for a couple of hours yesterday morning; the air smelled of mud and grass and, perhaps, of the end of winter. A heron landed on a nearby pole and ignored me superbly.

2. I have gone out a lot, in the cold wet mess that is London right now, to eat, look at things, mooch around museums and bookshops, walk around, sit in taverns until the wee hours and forget about the Februariness outside.

3. I have realised that since none of those things I did alone, there is very much a 'we' phenomenon going on. And do you know how I feel about that, bloggers?  I feel great, that's how. Quite smitten, actually. Yay.

4. Therefore.... we also booked train tickets to go to Dorset, and plane tickets to go to Madrid all within the next five weeks. Then when that was done we were so excited that I found myself being lifted up and carried across the room, which worked just fine with my usual way of expressing joy: squealing like a clubbed baby seal.

5. Apart from all my sickening news of newly found bliss.. I'm waiting for spring. Hello Spring, remember us? Time you came back, it's getting lonely here without you. Think about it. We're poised.

1. I'll land at 4.30, he said.
I'll call you as soon as I'm through, he said.
I can't wait to see you, he said.
That was via email, so he couldn't see just how vigorously I was nodding.

2.At 3pm the flat was under control, dust swept under the sofa, cat ready, his fur all brushed and with a fetching side parting.
At 3.30 I had a bath in my Most Luxurious Bath Products.
At 4pm I made my hair shiny-shiny and put on some clothes, like I hadn't really tried very hard - ha, who am I trying to fool? This jumper that slips off my shoulder, do you really think it's an accident? Well, do you?
At 4.30 I checked the Heathrow website to make sure no plane had crashed while I wasn't looking.
At 5pm I danced a little round the kitchen in anticipation.
At 5.50 I suddenly felt really tired and made some coffee.
It's now 6.35 and NOTHING.

But I'm keeping the faith, bloggers. He's not like that. Right?

9pm update: I knew it,  it wasn't entirely his fault, he's just challenged with writing down phone numbers and left dispairing voice messages on someone else's answerphone all afternoon.. until he realised.

1. Oh, look, we're meant to be all romantic today.

2. Perhaps the following extract from a recent conversation will illustrate just how romantic I am:

- So -I digress from something completely different , probably - yeah, in Ivory Coast we used to go out into the forest with that giant butterfly net and catch them for my fucked up step father's collection. Which got eaten up by moths anyway.
- I can picture you catching butterflies.. it sounds like such a delicate thing to do..
- mm here's where I shatter all your dreams and tell you the ugly truth about butterfly hunting.
- .......?
- Do you know what's the best way to attract butterflies? Especially the rarest species?
- no...?
- You take a massive dump. Then they literally flock to you. Herds of butterflies. That's how you catch' em. Honest.

He laughed. Phew. I didn't ruin it all after all.

3. This morning I received a text message from Rome - there is something for you hidden behind the mirror in your bedroom, it said.
I giggled like Marie Antoinette if she had eaten crack macaroons, let me tell you.
He's lovely.
Not here right now, but lovely - and coming back tomorrow. Yay!

4. Happy V day, everyone.

1. Bloggers, I can't help it, I'm being really rather smitten; I like it. Flutters, daydreaming, etc.

2. On my dating site of choice, there is the option to make one's profile invisible - not quite pulling it, but almost.

3. I'm being extremely inarticulate today - this blogpost should not be. I'll be back. Be well!

1.Yes, yes, I know! I did say that perhaps it would be better to take it slow, wait a couple of weeks before inviting him into my bed.
I know! I did say that.

2. I thought that perhaps he was too romantic for me - so romantic that he would want to wait, take it even slower; a little too shy, too, perhaps too shy to be a good lover. I was a little scared to be disappointed : I like self-confidence and initiative, you see, bloggers, and playfulness. A little kink as a bonus.

3. But! on Friday night after we strolled through London, after a little pub-hopping and much kissing on street corners ...the invitation just slipped out for the following night.

4. Self-confidence, initiative, playfulness.. and a little kink.
In a romantic kind of way.

5. Wow.

Perched on bar stools we sat, arms touching, and there was wine and hyperbolic tapas and a little more wine, too much perhaps, too late perhaps for a Monday night but we had all the time in the world and what was the point of going home anyway when all good things were right there?

So we went onto that wine bar which is a cellar really, with vaulted ceilings and dripping candles and rickety wooden tables tucked away in corners; we drank white port and definitely too much sherry for a Monday night and he put his arms around me and we kissed.

What disgraceful behaviour, I said, dishevelled.
I don't care, he replied calmly.

But it was Monday night - I fell asleep smiling on the tube on the way home.

Look Bloggers, it's 5.20pm, do you know what time it is? I do: it's Third Date time, that's what it is.
I've been behaving like a flea on crack all day, the poor man won't know what's hit him when I get there. Wish him luck!

1. Bloggers! Hello. I've missed you. Here's what happened: after much chanting and jumping up and down to make time fast forward a wee bit - it didn't work- Thursday finally came, grey and cold as fuck and rainy and utterly loaded with Januaryness. Hurrah anyway!

2. The plan was to handle work and the post-work meeting (yes they are trying to kill me, clearly) with calm and poise throughout the day, than jump into Normal Person clothes at 6pm and make a mad dash out the door by 6.03, in order to be in Leicester square at 6.45 precisely. This dating life requires excellent organisation, you see.

3. Grazing Plan A (no proper date can happen without some form of grazing, I am sure you will agree) was a tapas bar with hyperbolic food - too full. Grazing Plan B - sudden inspiration- was a mellow Morroccan restaurant with candlelight, suave wines and welcoming low sofas -  my heart leaped when I saw that yes, there was just enough room there for us to be very, very close to each other and I made a mental note of tipping the lovely waitress very generously.

4. Mandatestuart was rocking the understated white shirt with rolled up sleeves look again - aaah, how very distracting. Does he even know? I suspect he doesn't. Really.

5. There was red wine and tagine and mellowness and words; and accidental contact between out arms, legs, hands. We considered begging the waitress to let us sleep on those sofas, the outside world being just too cold and grey and dark and January-like. Perfect.

6. 'Take him home!!' a girl yelled at me outside the tube station as we were kissing.
Oh, I've said it now - I wasn't sure what to expect, holding myself back you see - but it just happened and it was slow and warm and delicious and not at all January-like.
'She's ruined the moment now' he said.
'No she hasn't', I said, picking up where we had stopped.

I can't wait for the next instalment, bloggers.

Is it Thursday yet?


What about now?

Bloggers, there has been more activity on the dating front - so much in fact that this serial dater has not found the time to blog about it.

At this point, I would like to do a little dance and declare that yes I shall see Mandatestuart again, and no later than Thursday night when I plan an evening of fun, food and frolics. Oh yes.

Thank you for stopping by; be well!

1. This morning, bloggers, it's ALL HAIL THE NEW BOILER! Warmth and high spirits have been restored, hair has been washed properly.The cat doesn't want to kill me anymore, arguing that the staff (me) doesn't take care of him properly.
I am watching the winter rain drip pathetically outside my bedroom window and I don't even care - I'm warm and there is brioche to be had with my tea.


2. Friday night was mandate night, and my mandate was Stuart.
Mandatestuart was shy at first but I am fairly good at breaking the ice if I sense there might be some chemistry - and boy, was there chemistry.
Mandatestuart has a big brain and is passionate about what he does and if I used his real name you could google him and you would be impressed too.

Mandatestuart has an open, sensual face, a big smile and bitable lips.
Mandatestuart has wide shoulders under the white shirt, and strong hands.
Mandatestuart is seriously sexy, in a slightly guarded kind of way.

As a child, Mandatestuart was probably a secretive insect collector.
I suspect that Mandatestuart doesn't know how sexy he is.

Mandastuart is probably too romantic, too deep and too easily hurt for me.


We drank wine, walked in the rain, had tapas in a suitably overcrowded bar, walked in the rain some more and stopped and looked at the view from the Jubilee bridge. We talked about what you talk about when there is chemistry with someone you hardly know.


At the end of the evening, Mandatestuart said I was 'everything I was hoping you would be'.*
I am still glowing from that, blogfolks. And yes I would love to see him again, and I'll try to not hurt the romantic, secretive insect collector inside if anything does develop.



*Not to self: Must write it down and keep it for future use when ego deflates life a soufflé.*

1. Bloggers, it's still friggin' cold in the House of Y; George the plumber harrumphed and aaahed and sort of promised to 'get onto it' by Wednesday.
Fingerless gloves and a fluffy Peruvian hat are being worn. To bed too, yes.

I'm surprising myself by how stoic I am about the whole thing.

2. Added to the niggling matter of discomfort of the cold, brain-numbing variety, I have to find a new place to live within the next few weeks. A place not too far from work; a place I can afford. There aren't many of those in London.

3. On the dating front.... yes I do have a couple of dates lined up for the end of the week. As it happens,  two of my potential dates have the same surname.
I certainly hope they're not related; they kind of look alike, too...

Stoically and hopefully yours.

I'm invited for afternoon tea at the Dorchester next week end!

I've browsed feverishly through my closet - I have nothing even remotely smart to wear!

It's official!
I'm frumpy!
My government might have to take my passport away!

 That's all. I've used up my daily quota of exclamation marks.

1. Blogfolks, I am cold.
My boiler has died again; the end of the world feels pretty fucking nigh: I am currently under two itchy camel pube blankets, typing with fingerless gloves and not looking forward to more cold showers - how very Dickensian.
I'm considering having watery porridge for dinner just to stretch out the theme a little.

2. Just when I was having a non-date weekend, eyeing up that ever growing pile of DVDs. I should have gone out tonight, really I should have, and warmed myself to the flame of casual banter and light flirting with a stranger - don't you think? I do. Instead, I'll put on a woolly hat and watch 'let's talk about the rain' ,  feel slightly sorry for myself and polish off the rest of the brownies. Aha, not feeling so flirty now, Y, are we?
No, we're not. Meh.

3. I find myself somehow addicted to the constant stream of attention that comes from all this hectic dating I have been doing. 
Blogpeople, I check my email three hundred times a day, give or take a few.
I shake my phone just to make sure it's still working.

4. I saw Mandatearnold again yesterday. In fact, I went round to his place for tea and cake.
Tea and cake, blogcitizens!! That is far too civilised.
I should be ashamed of myself.
We just...chatted. Then had tea, and cake.

This is going horribly wrong, isn't it.

Blogfolks! I've slept and been watered and yogaed and fed - ah, synapses are happening again now.

Over the past four days, I have:

- been called 'desperate' by an ex-lover who clearly resents not getting all my attention anymore. It was also warmly recommended that I 'get a life' and 'get over the boy-fixation because relationships are fucking overrated'.

It didn't hurt. Well, it did a little - for him.

- slipped on icy pavements, trudged in sludge, regretted wearing those boots.

- been enthusiastically encouraged by my mother to carry on with my dating activities.
It made me smile.

- seen Mandatearnold again, three times. Three times, Blogfoks! For some people, that's practically a relationship. He definitely doesn't deserve this stupid name and I apologise to all that is sacred and kind.
He cooked me dinner, told me I was pretty and made me laugh til I cried. I basked in his attention and went home feeling like a well-stroked cat.

- spent an afternoon in the National Gallery with a tall, blue-eyed, bushy-haired, shy individual. It was a lot of work getting more than monosyllabic sentences out of him. At the end of the afternoon, he made it clear - monosyllabically - that he was really quite into me.
I'm not sure what to do. See him again just to check that yes, I'd probably get bored with him?

- been surviving with a broken boiler. No heating, no hot water. I can tell you that cold showers in a very cold bathroom are one of the most depressing things to do at 6 am on a work day. Don't try it at home. Just don't.

Today, all is quiet on the dating front.  Batteries need to be charged up, work needs to be done. Be well, thank you for stopping by!

Blogfolks, this serial dater has stayed up late, very late for the past five nights - almost as many dates as nights, in fact.

Is dating burnout looming already? Surely not, I'm only getting started.

Off to bed I go - breathtaking revelations tomorrow.

1.Blogfolks! I can tell you one thing: the main highlight of my evening with the tall blonde was that I got a lift home in a porsche. Or something similar, I don't know, but for 15 minutes of my life I felt like one of those silky-haired, giggling broads who date very rich men.

2. While I'm a at it I can tell you one more thing: he may have looks and money and power and lots of words and a crisp white shirt - but this was my least interesting date so far.
I almost said yes to his invitation to salsa on Monday, because I wouldn't mind a little dancing but I think it's best to keep it at that.
I mean, I looked at my watch!

1.Tonight, blogfolks, I have a date with a very very tall very blonde South African in a public place with numerous exits. 

2. His height and the number of exits are unrelated.


3. The good thing is that if after spending the evening looking up I end up with a crick in my neck,  I have a date with a chiropractor tomorrow. I'm sure asking him to crack things back into place would be an ideal ice breaker.


Be well! Thanks for stopping by!

After how many dates does one turn into a serial dater?
If someone is considered to be a serial killer after three murders, should serial dating should follow the same criterion?

Hello, bloglandia, my name is Y and I'm a serial dater.

This is getting fun, blogfolks, I admit it.
Fairly wonderful for my ego, yes, certainly, but also a whole new perspective for me.
I have always been so serious, so single-minded, so fixated perhaps; channeling whatever hopes and emotions and desires I had to channel into a given person at a given time.

For the first time my itinerary is different, allowing me to look and consider and pause and understand more about myself, what I want, what I inspire in others, what different people inspire in me. I'm not seeing this dating process as a cynical shopping trip at all; my posts about mandates may sound flippant, but that's just a pretense, blogfolks, just a show. The mandatejohn fireworks and subsequent fiasco has been a learning experience and I won't get carried away so easily now.
I'll pace myself now and just enjoy the ride.

Guess what, blogpeople : I got an email from mandatejohn today; it said 'I'm in Africa for two weeks; I look forward to seeing you when I get back',

Well, I said, I'll keep busy in the meantime. Oh, and make sure you don't get eaten up by a lion or anything.

Be well, thank you for stopping by!

Mandatearnold doesn't deserve this terrible pseudonym.

Mandatearnold is hilarious, quick witted and rather cute in spite of the mandigan.

Mandatearnold makes sure I get home safely : the pacements are frozen, lethal.

But of course Mandatejohn looked like this, there, on the right, which is hard to beat in terms of sexiness.

I am so shallow.

1. Today, I'm rocking the woolly socks and multiple layers look, alternating stuffing myself with cold and cough medicine and doing little snow dances, imploring the skies for more.. but not so much that I can't go to tonight's date.

2 Mandatearnold (definitely not his real name) knows a lot about my previous dating and relationship record. I fear I might have revealed too much. He seems to find it... alluring.
Pervert.

 3. Mandatearnold has threatened to wear a cardigan to our date. Or is that a mandigan?

4. I have no high expectations of Mandatearnold and I hope he doesn't either, sartorially challenged as I'm going to be.

5. Oh look, it's snowing!

Be well, thank you for stopping by.

Today, I'll be spending the day in bed with a red nose, a pot of tea and a supportive cat.

Last night, blogfolks, I had a MUD (Moment of Utter Despair) about the state of my love life. And by extension about the state of my entire existence.
Do you know why? I do.
Because I logged onto to the dating site I'm currently subscribing to and found my competition (single women between the age of 30 and 40) all infinitely much brighter, wittier, prettier than I am.

That was definitely a curiosity-killed-me moment.

I don't know what happened overnight, but when I checked again this morning I thought - actually.. there isn't that much competition. Ok, maybe her, but she sounds even more neurotic than I am and she shows too much cleavage - and that, blogfolks, is either cheap or desperate or both. Or perhaps I just wish I had such a cleavage to flaunt..

Almost poised again. Almost ready to tango.

Mandatepeter is funny, witty and a quick thinker.

Mandatepeter has green eyes.

Mandatepeter is a musician and knows how to tango.

Mandatepeter is visibly kind.

Mandatepeter asks me about my previous dates.

I tell Mandatepeter everything about Mandatejohn; he commiserates.

Mandatepeter lends me his phone to call my bank after my bag gets stolen from under my chair in the restaurant, and walks me to the tube station.

I don't find Mandatepeter sexy at all, and I sigh inside.

I am a terrible, terrible date.

We won't see each other again, then.

One day, perhaps in the year 2070, I'll be sitting by the virtual fireplace, in the company of my (probably adopted) grand-daughter; she'll ask me about my life and smile an indulgent smile about how quaint all of this was - the way I do when I see my own real life grandma, except that I won't be so deaf.

Of course, by then relationships between the sexes will be infinitely simpler.

Won't they?

Anyhow, it might go a little like this:

- So, gran, what happened with mandatejohn?
- Ah, to this day it remains a mystery, my dear.
- You did shag him, didn't you ? (the young of the year 2070 will have no qualms about asking their grandparents about such things. I would get a slap, of course.)
- Not really, dear, we gradually seemed to lose our clothes and just rolled around a lot.
- How much is a lot?
- I don't know, half the night?
- But no shagging? And then he just faded away, didn't call, and you didn't, I don't know, set fire to his front door as a revenge, put slugs into his letterbox, do voodoo on his ass, something?
- I couldn't find any slugs, and I was too nice for any voodoo.
- So... what did you do? She'll ask, shaking her head disapprovingly at my niceness.
- I tried to distract myself by going out on more dates with more strangers. Obviously. And kept checking my email.
- And?
- Well, tomorrow, I'll tell you about mandatepeter.

Puto culebrón*

Blogfolks, I don't know what to do with myself ; also Anita my Carribean fairy godmother is away and unable to provide counsel/kicks up the arse.
I am clearly not equipped to draw a convincing list of New Year resolutions without her help, so in the meantime I'll be sitting here in my little corner of Limbo, waiting, agonising and generally calling myself a self-deluded idiot.

You see, Date II happened, and all was well, really it was; I think I blushed when I saw mandatejohn, those eyes, those lips, and such a musical voice - lovely.

Perhaps I shouldn't have spent the night..
Perhaps he was disappointed, that I wasn't what he thought I was.
Perhaps he hasn't called or texted or emailed since I left because his phone was stolen by an army of rabid garden gnomes who also left him tied up to a tree.

Perhaps when it comes to relationships I am more challenged than most.




*un culebrón is a grass snake; as well as, for the unsuspecting reader not necessarily accustomed to Latin american television,  a fairly bad, poorly acted, extremely long soap opera with too much makeup, illegitimate children, nylon shirts stretched tight across hairy chests and much hand wringing.