In which I go speed dating for the first, and probably last, time...

So, how was it?” Best Mate called for the mandatory post-match analysis.

“Ghastly,” I said. “I mean, partially hilarious. But mostly ghastly.”

Speed dating with Nutty Cow had seemed like a relatively amusing idea at the time. Actually, to be fair, I wasn’t wrong - it was a relatively amusing evening. But it was also one in which the dregs at the bottom of the dating barrel had been washed, shaved and lined up for our dating pleasure.

“I don’t want to go in,” NC whined, as we sat outside, a nerve-calming cigarette in her hand, and a large glass of wine in mine.

“Oh, how bad can it be?!” I said, taking a large swig.

I knew soon enough.

‘Dates’ one to three weren’t hideous by any stretch of the imagination. There were a couple of Irish guys who’d recently moved to London and were there, at the risk of sounding horribly stereotypical, “for the craic”; and a very gentlemanly, if slightly out of his depth, lawyer. That said, when faced with my overenthusiastic drinking, and PR-professional, work-mode, forced social enthusiasm, I think anyone’s entitled to be out of their depth. And that was when things started to go downhill. Rapidly.

There was a sweet marketing type who DJd in his spare time. But even in my least judgemental moments, the ease of conversation wouldn’t overshadow his unfortunate physique: you can be any two of short, fat and ginger. You can’t be all three.

There was the Indian accountant, whose life seemed to revolve around his job.

“What do you do for fun?” I said, trying to tease something more than numbers out of him.

“I study accounting textbooks,” he said.

Next.

We rattled through a guy who was clearly wife-hunting, and one whose unbridled enthusiasm for all things British - “the people are so friendly!” - had me a little suspicious. Visa, anyone?

There was one chap, though, who took the bottom-of-the-barrel biscuit.

“So, what do you do?” I said, faintly alarmed by the slightly wild expression staring back at me.

“Nothing,” he said, presumably attempting to be enigmatic and falling rather wide of the mark. “You see, I’m a millionaire.” My heart sank. Holy Manolo: here come the crazies. “Several months ago, my dad wrote me a cheque for ten million pounds, so I don’t work any more.”

“That must be nice,” I said, not wishing to antagonise the clearly insane. “I’d have been tempted to jack it all in, and travel round the world.”

“Oh, I have,” he said.

“Really? Whereabouts?”

“Oh, all over the place,” he said, without the faintest trace of irony. “Kent… Essex…”

Eh?!

As a way to meet the love of one’s life, speed dating is an entirely pointless exercise. As a way to spend the rest of one’s week in giggling fits at a mere thought, there are worse ways to spend a night…

In which I hunt for houses...

“Just humour me,” The Father said. I was sitting at the kitchen table with a Saturday morning mug of coffee and the papers, trying to complete the crossword before The Mother swooped in to make her attempts at it. I looked up, and eyed him sceptically. Before me on the table, there were two piles of house details: one I’d brought back of flats in London, and one that TF had compiled of properties in Home County, the weight of which was threatening to buckle the legs of the table.

“I mean, look at this,” I’d said to The Mother, waving one of the leaflets at her the previous evening as she and I had sat in the garden with gins and tonic. “What the hell does he think I need with a four-bedroom house?! There’s only me - besides anything else, I’d never get round to all the cleaning.”

“Oh, I don’t know, darling. You know what your father’s like.”

And I do. Which is why, come the end of my coffee, I bundled myself into TF’s car to go and look at local houses, just to keep him quiet.

“I realise you’re not keen,” he said, swinging out of the drive, “but I just want you to see this one place so you have something to compare the London properties to.”

“It’s not that I’m not keen, per se,” I said. “It’s just that…”

“I know,” TF said over me as we headed across town. “I definitely wouldn’t want to do that commute every day. But I think you need to be aware of your options.” We pulled into the courtyard of a small mewsy set of houses. “Let’s just go and have a look.”

We hopped out of the car, and a very enthusiastic woman leapt to greet us.

We’d barely been in the house ten minutes when I realised that TF’s plan was not too far short of genius.

“Well, what do you think?” he said, watching with a small smirk as I practically danced round the large, brand new kitchen, poking my head into all the kitchen cupboards and working out where I could fit a dishwasher - necessary given the number of dinner parties that’d be possible around the full-sized dining table at the other end of the kitchen.

“It’s all right,” I said, poutily. The oven gleamed in a way that I suspect our current number never has. I felt like a teenager who knows her father’s right, and tries her damndest to hide the glee in her voice.

Gardens, sitting rooms, bedrooms, en-suites, bathrooms and downstairs loos later, I was almost converted.

“It’s in walking distance of the station, it’s got off-road parking, the kitchen and bathrooms are brand new…” The Mother looked at me. “I know, I know… but, there’s a garden, a spare room and it’s in such a quiet part of town - there’d be no idiots with bloody bhangra blaring from their cars at 7am…”

I told Best Mate that I was contemplating the previously unthinkable - and moving back to the Home Counties.

Well, she said in response to my message, this makes me gleeful. We’ll see each other far more if you’re closer. London’s not all it’s cracked up to be, really.

And thus it was that, a mere forty-eight hours after my adamant protestations about not moving out of the city where my job, friends and current life is, I found myself putting in an offer on the first house I’d seen, nowhere near the place I’d imagined living.

Apparently, dads do sometimes know best.

In which desperate times call for desperate measures...

I tell you, it’s not good. I texted Best Mate as I came out of a tube station in the centre of town, on my way back from a late afternoon pitch. My hormones must be all over the place, or something. It’s not an exaggeration to say that I eyed up every single man who passed me on the escalator just now. I don’t think being off men is doing me any good.

I considered for a moment, and then…

To be honest, it’s probably not the best frame of mind in which to be when I’m about to see Speckled Lad the Elder for a drink.

I paused, waiting for the message to sink in.

BLONDE! I swear, if you have sex with him, I don’t know what I’ll do.

Erk. One’s Best Mate saying sharply, in not so many words that, 'doing it once might have been vaguely amusing, if slutty; anything more than that is decidedly whoreish' is a faintly sobering experience.

Of course, by that point, it was too late to take myself out of temptation’s path, SLE being, as he was, on his way across the bar towards me.

“It’s pathetic,” I whimpered to BM later. “All he had to do was smile, and I practically melted into my gin. Manolo knows what Speckled Mother was drinking when she was pregnant with that lot, but it should be put into the water: the four of them are delicious.”

BM humoured me as I waxed lustical a while longer.

“I mean, they only seem to have one setting: flirt. And those goodbye hugs! Ridiculous. They’re all rock solid. It’s like being squeezed against a tower of deliciousness.”

“Don’t sleep with him.” Warning tones.

“I won’t.”

“I dunno how you’ve done it,” Hot Flyer Boy said as we sat in our local one night. “I never thought you’d actually stick to this staying off men thing. Totally thought you’d cave by now. Tell you what, this goes on much longer and I’m going to turn up at your door with flowers and try my luck.”

It’s quite possible that, at this stage, I’d say yes.

“I need a distraction,” I explained to BM later in the week. “I can’t go through many more tube journeys eyeing up every man who crosses my line of vision. I’ll go nuts. I need to be able to focus my energies.”

And so it was that I sent an email to Nutty Cow.

Fancy this? I emailed a link to a speed dating event.

Why not, she replied.

It’s probably a disastrous idea. But if it stops me edging towards a round of Speckled bed-hopping, anything’s worth a shot.

In which I see a hurdle on the horizon...

“It’s quite incredible,” I said to Best Mate on the phone. “I made one enquiry, on one site, and I swear I’m being stalked by each and every one of them north of the river.”

Since The Father made the rather unexpected and generous gesture of helping me onto the property ladder, I’ve spent many a furtive hour at work scouring property sites for houses that a) won’t break the bank and b) leave me with a deep-seated desire to hit all estate agents known to woman with a large dose of veritaserum. I’d not whiled away ten minutes before I was beyond irritated - a “spacious one bedroomed property” does not equate in anyone’s book to a studio flat in which you’d be hard-pressed to swing the smallest of easels. And now, I was being stalked by estate agents.

“Hmm. Not overly surprising,” BM said, one eye audibly on the textbooks for her impending legal exams. “The vultures are circling. Whether they’ve actually got anything suitable or not, you’re a lone piece of meat in a pretty sparse landscape.”

You’ll need something with two bedrooms, The Father emailed, in response to a link I’d sent him with a potential property.

But it’s just me, I replied, anti-social but tempting thoughts of living by myself swirling round my head.

But this way, TF continued, you could either let out a room, or have it spare. You don’t want anything with just one bedroom. It’ll be far harder to re-sell. And this is exactly why I don’t think you should be looking in London. You’ll get far more for your money if you move out to Home Counties Town.

“He does realise, does he not,” I grumbled at The Mother on the phone that evening, “that I live and work in London? Work’s here, my friends are here. Why the hell would I want to move out again?”

“Oh, you know your father, darling,” said TM. “It’s all about the value for money with him. Just be firm: dig in your heels, and let him know he can’t have his own way on this one.”

Of course, that’s easier said than done when someone is giving you an extremely large chunk of cash.

Mendacious, irritating estate agents I was expecting. A battle with the benefactor? Not so much.

In which I should know this by now...

It’s an inevitability: when there’s an important date in the diary, the cosmos conspires to make life difficult.

And, as is also inevitable when one reaches a certain age (which, admittedly, seems to have come around sooner than I was anticipating), the important dates that summer brings are the weddings of friends.

Lefty Neil, and soon-to-be Mrs. Not-Quite-So-Lefty Neil are getting married in a matter of days. A shiny wedding present has been delivered at their Edinburgh flat, and there is a fascinator perching - precariously - in readiness over the wardrobe door. So far, so good. Even the fake tan, applied somewhat cautiously, in an attempt to balance the twin Furies - Scary White and Streaky Orange - hasn’t done the anticipated blotchy thing.

But, as always, complacency comes before a fall.

Running fractionally late one morning during the week, I cast my gaze across the road, before hopping over the crossing to the tube station. Obviously, this being London, most drivers have absolutely no clue what they’re doing and, without indicating, a prat in a BMV swung round the corner. I did what anyone in the same situation would have done, and promptly fell over in the middle of the road in surprise.

An examination in the loos at work several hours later showed that I wasn’t lying in pieces in the middle of the road dead, but my knee was doing an excellent approximation of Jackson Pollock’s version of a road traffic accident as.

A gruesome mess of what was purple and black a few days ago is now purple, green and yellow. And huge. And will sit just nicely on display beneath the hem of the new dress, bought specially for the occasion.

“It’s just bloody typical, isn’t it?” I ranted on the phone to Best Mate on evening, as I turned my room upside down.

“What’s wrong now?”

“Apart from the artwork on my knee? I can‘t find my favourite cardigan,” I raged. “I love it, but haven’t seen it in weeks, and if I want to wear it next weekend, it’s going to need a bloody good wash.” I tipped the laundry basket on its end, and surveyed the chaos.

“Huh. When did you last see it?”

I cast my mind back… “Well, I had it… I had it when I went down to see Speckled Lad…” Then it occurred to me.

I had it when I was on the train going down to see SL on his last weekend at home. I had it as we sat in the pub with his friends, and I had it when he kissed me halfway up the stairs. And I’ve not seen it since. Not since he pushed it off my shoulders, and down my arms, and threw it across the room as we had a lapse in concentration.

“Oh hell. It’s… I think… I think it’s at SL’s,” I said slowly. “I think it’s under his bed.”

“Ah, well. It seems you might have to get a new one,” BM said. “Unless you fancy calling his mother to ask for it back.”

Diary dates: as disastrous as dates themselves.

In which my father drops a bombshell...

I was in Sainsbury’s at the time.

Phoning The Mother for a quick chat at lunchtime, I was surprised to hear The Father pick up the house phone.

“Oh. Hi. Are you slacking off work?”

“I’ve torn the ligaments in my knee,” he said, sounding suitably grumpy about the situation as he relayed a story about falling down the stairs at an airport on his return from a business trip.

Once I’d ascertained that my clearly malcoordinated father was okay, we did something that we rarely do, and had chatted on the phone. (My relationship with The Father is based largely via email and through-secretary communication.)

He filled me in on various bits and pieces that were going on at home, before asking how things were in the big bad capital.

“All good,” I said, wandering round the chilled drinks section. “We’re busy at work, there’s a pitch coming up… I’m going to have to start looking for a place to live soon, as our tenancy’s up in a couple of months. It’s all go.”

“Hmm,” TF said. “Well, don’t do anything straight away.” He paused. I’d say for dramatic effect, but it’s actually just more the speed at which TF speaks. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh?” I scowled at the back of a particularly slow-moving tourist’s head. Tottenham Court Road at lunchtime not the place for those who move at anything other than warp speed. Milling is unacceptable.

“Well, how about I fund you a deposit, and we get you on the property ladder?”

“What?” Shocked into total inertia, I dropped my roasted vegetable cous cous onto the feet of the woman standing next to me.

"Well, it seems a sensible time to do it. And it'll save you throwing your money away on rent."

“Oh, er, gosh,” I said, ambushed into extreme Englishness. “Um, well, that’d be lovely, thanks very much.”

“Excellent. Come home at the weekend, and we’ll talk about it. Must go - your mother’s made lunch. We’ll speak to you soon. Bye.”

And with that I was left in the middle of Sainsbury’s, my lunch on my shoes and, for the first time in my life, speechless.

In which I swear off boys. Again...

“So, how was it?” Best Mate asked as we sat at her kitchen table the evening before heading down to Badminton, watching the new kitten eat the new puppy’s food.

“Bizarre,” I said, thoroughly impressed by both the cuteness of the kitten and BM’s cauliflower and roasted aubergine curry with pomegranate. “I thought it was going to be cathartic. I didn’t expect to be even more confused by the end of it.”

“Oh, really?” Bless her, she tried to hide it, but I could see BM’s face fall, almost imperceptibly, as she reached for her glass of wine and take a large swig as she digested my statement.

We were discussing Long Term Ex’s weekend stay, just a few days after I’d been turned into a gibbering wreck by saying goodbye to Speckled Lad.

“I’d assumed LTE would turn up and I’d know, one way or the other, how I feel about him, you know? Put the years of umming and ahhing and debacles to bed? But I don’t.”

When I’d met LTE in one of the coffee bars opposite the office on the Friday evening, I was gratified: there were no butterflies, no pangs - nothing to suggest latent feelings of devotion. I was actually a little thrown by the fact that he’d not told our mutual friend that he was coming; that he’d be spending all weekend with me; and that he’d brought me a sentimental mix CD, just like those he used to make when we were still young and innocent. All good, I thought: everything points towards the fact that I might be Finally Over Him.

But, as the weekend progressed, and we spent hours just wandering round town, in crept his old familiar habits. I remembered how much I love the small acts of chivalry - opened doors; help with jackets; arms proffered whilst walking; discreet management of restaurant staff. We sat at outside tables in restaurants and he made in-jokes from a lifetime ago, whilst my (rather concerning) deep-seated attraction to men with a cigarette resting casually between their fingers came flooding back.

As we sat on the sofa that evening, watching a film, the smell of his aftershave and his gentle nudges at scenes he found funny brought the memories to the surface. Memories about how much, actually, I used to adore this man with every fibre of my being.

“But, for some reason, known only to the extraordinary place that is my brain, whilst I was becoming more convinced that, deep down, I might just still be in love with my ex-boyfriend, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Lad.”

Best Mate drained her wine, and finished the bottle into our glasses.

“Ah. Well, I, er… I can’t really give you any advice there. Do you think you want to be with either of them?”

“Don’t know.” I wiggled my toes in front of the kitten, who was haring round the kitchen like a feline possessed.

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t know.” I took a large, therapeutic swig. “But there’s definitely something wrong with having to fight back the tears because you’re saying goodbye to one boy whilst you’re simultaneously thinking about another one.”

“Yeah, definitely can’t help you there. Maybe just… take some time out? Completely ignore both of them for a while see if the brain sorts itself out?”

Wine, and sage advice. That’s what Best Mates are made of.