In which I'm advised to take a new approach...

My talent for science at school was a little haphazard. Biology lessons were mostly spent nattering with friends on the back row, claiming squeamishness whilst the keener beans dissected the respiratory systems of cows. I was passable at Chemistry, what with a father in pharmaceuticals, but I’ll confess that the main reason I gained a respectable grade for Physics had much to do with Penny the lab technician going rather above and beyond whilst ‘helping’ me with my coursework.

Similarly, my love life is probably most kindly described as ‘hapless’. Whilst it’s diverting, and sometimes amusing, to lurch from one flirtation to the next, success at sustained and functional anythings seems to have eluded me thus far.

It was brought to my attention recently that my dismal hit rate could well be a reflection of my chosen methodology. I’ve not put too much work in, and tried not to worry too much about what’s round the next corner. But, as my recent dating record will attest, it’s not really done me any favours.

After the last guy that Old Friend set me up with, I should probably have been rather sceptical when he suggested that he do it again.

“There’s this great guy on my MBA course,” he'd said over post-work drinks one night. “You should come along to one of our drinks things and meet him.”

A week or so later, standing on a platform waiting for a train to take us into deepest, darkest Suffolk for the annual Best Mate-Blonde fireworks party, OF was bemoaning a monster hangover.

“I didn’t get back till 6am,” he said, looking a little queasy. I took the large bag of fireworks from him, and handed him a double espresso. “It was a great night, although I don’t think I’ll be setting you up with James. He spent most of the night picking up 19 year old girls.” He took a gulp of coffee. “To be fair to him, though, he did put them down again.”

An email discussion with a new acquaintance further reinforced the fact that I’ve had rather a track record of picking the wrong chaps for anything approaching easy and committed.

Blonde, you need to get rid of him.

In a discussion about the characters in her book, I commented on the fact that The Author seemed to have drawn remarkable similarities between her leading man and Speckled Lad.

I had one of those. He’ll never make you happy. Find yourself a nice man, and marry him.

Ah, if wishing made it so.

But it was a discussion with PolitiGal over cocktails in a bar in Soho that brought an interesting new dimension to my apparent bad luck with the boys.

“Hmm. I don’t think that’s necessarily right, you know, Blonde. After all, you’d say you’re a pretty lucky person otherwise, wouldn’t you?”

I took a sip of my Wibble and considered. She had a point – in work, home, friendships, I consider myself really rather lucky.

“Then I think there’s no reason that you should be any less luck with the love life. But I imagine you just don’t put as much work into it; you just imagine it’s one of those things that should come naturally.”

For a gal of my own age, PolitiGal puts this across with amazing clarity and wisdom.

“I think, Blonde, that all you need to do is put a little more work in. Don’t assume that these things come as simply as Hollywood would have us believe. Take a more scientific approach to things.”

Sadly, we got to the bottom of too many Wibbles to be able to ascertain what a successful scientific approach might look like.

Hopefully, with so much science being based heavily on maths, it’ll be a mere case of numbers: date more men and a good egg is likely to turn up. Unfortunately, if the hypothesis is any more complex, I think I’m in trouble.

In which I'm tempted to keep my trap shut...

There’s a definite danger to sharing snippets of personal information.

Even in the supposedly anonymous world of the blogosphere, it can make for awkward situations. It is, for example, rather surreal to stand in a receiving line at friends’ weddings and have people’s parents give one a knowing wink [hi, Mr and Mrs N…].

In the real world, the danger’s no less prevalent, with the real hazard that one has misjudged one’s audience.

Not long ago, Liver Bird and I went out for post-work glasses of wine. The event doesn’t happen very often, but when it does, the volume of wine consumed more than makes up for the lack of frequency.

We’d done gossiping about the bosses, and had moved on to the ol’ gal talk fallback: boys. Given LB’s status as a smug settled, she lives vicariously through any single snippets I choose to throw at her.

Having had more sauvignon blanc than was entirely wise for a Tuesday, we ended up talking – as somehow, she and I so often do – about Speckled Lad. On this occasion and in rather circuitous fashion, we ended up talking about the whole Speckled Collective. Conspiratorially, I started telling LG about the time they came to the ‘Burgh for Hogmanay.

“So, it’s 5am, and after all the Absolut milkshakes, I decide to unleash the old woman in me, and go and find a cup of tea. And, while I’m standing there, I feel a breath on the back of my neck, and suddenly I’m kissing Speckled Lad the Elder…”

I stopped. LG was staring at me, aghast.

“Oh my God, Blonde – you kissed his brother?! Oh my God. That’s… outrageous.”

The horror in her eyes was enough to make me thankful that’s as far as I’d got. Apparently my friends – amused, rather than scandalised by my admittedly hussylike behaviour – are more open-minded than most. Thank heavens she isn’t privy to any other information about my chequered dating history.

And, just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, I was crudely reminded of the importance of choosing carefully the people one confides in.

I was sitting in a pub in the West End with Hot Flyer Boy, when in walked a familiar face. In a city of seven million people, how is it that there’s always someone you know just across the room?

“Hi, Blonde!” The Irish accent was lilting and irresistible. A quick chat, and he disappeared to the other side of the pub, awaiting friends.

As HFB and I sat at a small table nursing a couple of post-work drinks when another friendly face came up to say hello. A brief moment later, and she’d disappeared too. It didn’t take me a moment to piece together who the next person through the door was likely to be.

”Hey, Blonde! What are you doing here? Have you seen my flatmates? They’re meant to be in here somewhere.” Speckled Lad the Elder bent down and kissed me on the cheek.

“Hi,” HFB extended a hand. “So, how do you know Blonde?”

“Blonde and I have known each other a couple of years now – she and my brother were at uni together.” HFB looked at me, eyebrows raised. “I’m SLtE, by the way – Speckled Lad’s brother.”

“Oh, right. Oh…" HFB’s penny visibly dropped. “Hi! SL is like, Blonde's best friend! Why don’t you sit down and join us? I've heard loads about you and your brother. I’m sure Blonde would love to have, er, catch up.”

I kicked him under the table.

”Oh, Blonde, I can’t tonight – but I’ll drop you an email tomorrow; we’ll grab a drink soon, yeah?” He wandered back across the bar to his flatmates.

“So – that’s the brother, huh? Sure you’d rather not go and… join them?!” I could have sworn I saw the faintest glimpse of a wink cross his face.

Of course, the problem might not be the indiscretion amongst friends. The problem might have been a few specific indiscretions themselves.

In which, despite Orange's best efforts, I receive a phone call...

I was banging my head against the desk, trying to find a way to politely word an email to one of my clients, telling her that she’s a prat of the first order when a number I didn’t recognise flashed on the screen of my phone. I looked at it for a moment, before a faint hope dawned on me. I jumped out of my chair.

“Oh, um, I’m just going to…”

I grabbed the phone from the desk and sprinted up the stairs as fast as the 3”-heeled, patent black, Secretary-style Mary Janes would allow.

“Hang on, hang on – don’t go anywhere – I’m just going to find a patch of better signal. Hang on!”

“Heh, don’t panic, I’m not going anywhere.” Guards Man’s gentle Scotch cadences floated down the line from War Zone. [Seriously, on the exceptionally slim chance that anyone from Orange is out there reading, please, but please do something about your frankly shoddy reception. Please.]

“GM!”

“Hey Blonde. How’s it going?”

Given that I’ve only ever spent one evening in the Man’s company, the sound of his voice was an unexpectedly reassuring tonic.

“Good, fine. But bugger me – how are things where you are?”

“Really, really hot…”

We chatted about our lives for what seemed like just seconds.

“There should be a package on its way to you.”

“Really? Oh my God, that’s amazing. Thank you so much. Actually, if you’ve got a minute, you couldn’t send me an ebluey, could you? You know, let me know what you’ve been doing and stuff. It’s just, the guys are all getting them, and I… well, I just… Heh. I’m jealous! It’s stupid, isn’t it?!”

Visions of sand and tents swirled round my head as I stood in our central London foyer. “Not at all – I’ll zip something over.”

“I, er… Um… Blonde, I hit the front lines at the end of the week. If you’re sending stuff, you couldn’t do it before I go, could you? Because it’ll take a while to get to me after that…”

“Absolutely,” I said, my heart sinking slightly as I heard his imminent change of location. “I’ll make sure everything comes your way this afternoon.”

“I’m not really looking forward to it, actually,” he said, rather too candidly for my liking. The front door open, and one of the guys from the office upstairs nodded as he walked past. “I don’t think it’s going to be too much fun.”

I paused. I mean, what the hell does one say to that? Oh, don’t be silly, you’ll be fine? or, what are you worrying about – I’m sure you’ll all have a blast?

“Oh, Blonde – I’m really sorry: I’m going to have to go. But, listen: I should have some leave in January if…er… Well, yeah. I might be home for a couple of weeks. It’d be great to see you.”

“Of course,” I said. “It’d be fab to see you too – and the cake’s on its way!”

And with that, the phone went down. The spirits rose, though.

In which the novelty's worn off now...

I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not an awful lot of fun having friends in a War Zone.

Realistically, of course, I know it’s verging on the ridiculous to get worked up worrying about either Guards Man or Military Gal. It’s the men who merit concern; I know that, as officers, my friends are probably comparatively safe. It’s just that they’re not as safe as they would be if they were sitting behind a desk in a law firm.

And, of course, I’m not alone. There are thousands of men and women who must be experiencing far greater dread: people whose husbands and wives, fathers, mothers, sons, daughters are out in what’s currently one of the most dangerous places on the planet, something that’s clearly a far greater wrench to their hearts.

But still, they’re doing what I am – soaking up every news snippet about the conflict in War Zone; flinching every time the terrible words, “a British soldier was killed yesterday…” emanate from the radio; sighing with guilty relief when they hear that a previous day’s fatality has been named as Not Their Loved One, horrified at feeling such relief when someone, somewhere, has had a hole blown through their life.

Of course, we’d absolutely never tell them that this is how it is for people at home. They have enough to deal with, without worrying that their loved ones are worrying. Silly guilt about our feelings is something they don’t need to worry about when IEDs are more the priority.

So, we do our bit.

We don’t tell them about the fear. We are thankful when we hear no bad news; we relish the letters that fall on the mats; we cherish the rare but longed-for moments when we pick up the phone to hear their voices.

We don’t and can’t let on how scared we are – it’s not our place.

They opted for the job; they made a decision and knew the risks; we support the decisions of the people we love.

And so, we wait. We wait for them to come home – hope and believe that they will. Pray that what they’ve seen won’t scar them beyond recognition, and be here to pick up any pieces that might have fallen loose.

We put on a brave face.

We do our very best to be blasé, conceal the dread beneath a veneer of dark humour and nonchalance.

When they call, let them hear that we’re chirpy, happy.

And in the meantime? We send chocolate.

In which I miss a call...

It was with the usual cursing that I slammed the phone back onto my desk. “Arsing reception.” My boss turned in his chair as I delivered my tirade. “The middle of central bloody London, and there’s no buggering signal.” [Admittedly, the office of Small but Perfectly Formed Agency is in the basement of a four-storey building, but you’d think Orange would be able to do something about the coverage.]

A number flashed up on the screen, registering the missed call. I took the phone and scurried up the stairs into the main foyer to return the phonecall.

You have missed a call, a voice intoned, from a member of the British Armed Forces overseas. For assistance, please telephone…

I hurriedly dialled the number, to be greeted by a softly spoken woman on the other end of the line.

“Hi, I, er, I’ve just missed a call, and the message said to phone this number.”

“Oh, hi there. Yes, it’ll have been from Service personnel abroad. Do you have family or friends overseas?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, excitedly. “A couple of my friends are serving abroad at the moment.” I paused. “Is there any way of telling who it was?”

“Oh, no, I’m afraid not.” The gentle Scotch lilt did little to ease the blow. “Whereabouts are they?”

“Oh. Um, one’s in Desert Training Camp and one’s in War Zone,” I murmured, disappointed.

“Ah, more than likely it was a call from War Zone, then. I’m so sorry – there’s nothing I can do. We’re not allowed to give the numbers out – security reasons, you see. You’ll just have to wait for them to call back. I’m so sorry.”

Slightly despondent, I headed back to my desk.

“Anyone interesting?” The boss looked up from his screen.

“I think it was Guards Man,” I said.

“Oh god. From War Zone? And you missed it?!”

“Mmm. Well, at least I know he’s in few enough pieces that he’s able to dial the number."

The boss looked at me disapprovingly, clearly wrestling with an instinct to tell me that black humour has a time and a place, and this wasn’t it. “I’m sure he’ll, er, I’m sure he call back.”

I nodded, turning back to my emails.

“I hope so.” I hope he lasts long enough that he can...

In which I'm inspired to have a tidier house...

I am all in favour of living by oneself. Sure, there’s no one to have last-minute, late-night chats with, and you have to rely on a complex system of Post Its and alarms to remind you to buy milk. But there are no crumbs in the butter, little black hairs in the plughole or cults in the sitting room. (Oh, and there’s no one to tell you that you’re not allowed a kitten. Colin arrives in about four weeks’ time.)

And, of course, one of the great advantages is that one’s bad behaviour needn’t necessarily be admitted to. Coughing up to Best Mate and The Cynic over Saturday lunch is one thing – and, much as there might be well-deserved mockery, the confession was wholly voluntary. If you don’t want anyone else to know about the lapses in concentration, there’s nothing like living by oneself.

There’s no one around to keep an ear out for the sex jeans, or get crabby if you don’t come home alone. Which, given my recent indiscretion, was just as well, as Speckled Lad and I didn’t even make it to the bedroom when he came to stay for the weekend. Whether we would have done had there been other people in the house, I don’t know. But, as it was, I was rather glad there was no one to wander in and catch us at it on the sofa.

Of course, living by oneself also makes one slightly less inclined to remove the detritus that lands in life’s wake. The Saturday papers sprawl over the coffee table, coffee paraphernalia litters the kitchen side, and a pair of exorbitant heels that one kicked off as soon as one got home from a bar opening during the week discarded in the hall.

But, as I have now learnt, it’s not always such a fabulous idea to be so sluttish in one’s tidying habits.

It was the post-Speckled Sunday, and I was padding round the house in t-shirt and jogging bottoms, making tea and brunch. Having sloped straight back to bed once I’d packed SL off to his chemical gas test at ungodly o’clock (heaven knows what the neighbours thought), I’d only just got up, and was contemplating an afternoon on the sofa with a novel when the doorbell rang. A little bleary, I opened the door with one hand, a bucket of Earl Grey in the other.

“Hello, darling. Gosh, are you all right? You look a little… crumpled.” The Mother blitzed through the door, arms laden with homemade pumpkin soup, a fleece blanket for the kitten, and a pot plant.

“Eh? Oh, just got up,” I muttered, following her through the hall into the sitting room. She stopped. I followed her gaze as it landed on the sofa. My heart sank.

Strewn over the cushions and surrounding floor area, and which I hadn’t yet got round to picking up, were a couple of shoes, a haphazard arrangement of several items of clothing – and, over the back of the sofa, a decidedly male-looking sock.

“You and Speckled Lad had a nice evening, I hope?” She said as she whirled through and landed the soup and the plant on the kitchen side with a thud.

“Great, thanks,” I said, dying inwardly.

“Good,” she said, folding the blanket and draping it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. “Well, darling, I’ll leave you to it. It looks like you have a touch of clearing up to do. Have a lovely afternoon.” She kissed me on the cheek and reeled out at the same speed she’d whirled in at.

As I rescued my bagel from the toaster, I resolved that there was only one thing for it. If one is to live by oneself, there has to be a plan for the detritus: hail the advent of the cleaner.

In which I should apologise for blogging like a broken record...

So far, this has been a pretty good year. 2009 has seen a promotion in the office, and a promotion onto the property ladder. But – and isn’t there always a but? – there has been one failing – and it’s not just the fact that I still haven’t bought the perfect coffee table for the sitting room: I made just one resolution at the beginning of the year – and it’s been well and truly not kept.

The only person I have had sex with this year has been the one person I promised myself I wouldn’t: the willpower that seemed so robust at the beginning of the year has flown the new coop. Sex with Speckled Lad seems to be making its way back firmly onto the agenda.

Obviously, since the Lad has been at Renowned Military Academy, the potential to see him has obviously decreased exponentially since the winter, when we’d see each other several times a week – and always on a Friday night.

But, since breaking my resolve in the spring, when we have seen each other, more often than not, behaviour hasn’t been impeccable. When we’ve been with friends, there’s been nothing more than a secret snatched kiss, or a fleeting hand brushed against the neck. But when we’ve been on our own, the restraint has been somewhat qualified…

I was unpacking the shopping one Friday evening when the phone rang. In a plaintive little voice, SL explained an horrific sounding week, and asked if he could come up for the Saturday night – “I need to escape.” The poor guy sounded exhausted. “The only thing that’s got me through the week is the thought that I can come up and see you – your house is such a sanctuary.”

Well, how’s a gal supposed to say no to that?

An afternoon spent mooching round the house, drinking coffee, chatting, his doing paperwork and my reading the paper on the sofa, was relaxed, unhurried and utterly at ease.

We had supper in a small country pub in the next village, where the waitress made mistaken but understandable comments about us as a couple, and how we apparently couldn’t keep our eyes off each other.

When we got home, we curled up on the sofa, SL snuggled into my lap – his hands wrapped around my legs and my hands in his hair. He leant back, pushed his face into my shoulder, and reached up to kiss my neck. That was that. (I still can’t for the life of me find a couple of items of clothing from the evening: I think my knickers might still be somewhere down the back of the sofa…)

He left, just thirteen and a half hours after he arrived, in order to be back in time for a chemical gas attack early on Sunday morning (one of the more peculiar reasons a guy’s left my bed).

So, apparently, nothing’s changed. We’re still sleeping together. We’re still not together. And now it’s coming up to SL’s birthday, we’ve been sleeping together, on and off, for two years. It is almost my, and almost certainly is SL’s, longest-lasting (if most dysfunctional) relationship. But, from where I stand, it seems that there’s little either of us is going to do about it. I’d wait for January to make any more resolutions (maybe, not just not having sex with SL, but actually having sex with someone other than him) but I imagine they’d be just as pointless.