If you believe that 'the only man a girl can depend on is her daddy' - uttered ny that famous philosopher Frenchie in Grease - and Daddy's not exactly the role model of reliability, then surely there is no hope for me?
I've learnt from trial and error that it's always best to expect the worst so you are never disappointed, or so the theory goes.
That is, however, until an outside factor, such as modern technology, blurs the edges of where the blame truly lies.
I had a date last Sunday, or at least I should have, had the SIM card in my phone not decided after four months that it was in fact, invalid and packed in.
This left me dsolate and crying into the calorific ice cream I'd resisted on my equally desolate Valentine's date with, well, me.
When he didn't show I immediatley thought the worst.
A very apologetic email on Tuesday explained he'd had to work and thought I'b been blanking him for calling off, so he probably and understandably worried about the response he'd get from me if he'd reached me.
If he had my home number, he would have called.
I had limited my eight avenues of communication to only two, one of which was now not working, the other only accessible from work. Adding to his list would surely only be adding to my disappointment if he didn't use it. Damage limitation.
Gone are the days we girls would stay in just in case he called, dialling the operator only to hear "No, yhere's no fault with your line. Or his."
We can't now blame the fact that we were out, or he wasn't near a phone for the lack of verbal intercourse. Until my invalid phone packed in, I had it on and with me 24/7, able to check every few minutes in case there was that little envelope signalling that I had mail and more importantly, I had male.
There is too much pressure on the caller and the called nowadays.
As if this was not bad enough, someone had to ask the question every 'single' person hates. If I knew the answer I wouldn't be single. Simple as.
It's like asking someone who has lost something where they last had it, because if they knew that, they'd know where to look.
On returning from a night out, a friend was asked by her intended why I didn't have a boyfriend, because I was 'funny'.
Funny ha ha? Or funny as in a sandwich short?
I'd had funny before - been there, done that, told the jokes. Now, I needed something else. What was I lacking? Except a boyfriend.
The question : "Why don't you have a boyfriend?" should go to Room 101.
Mothers, I have found, are the worstperpetrators. Mine is determined to marry me off to my boy-space-friend, and thinks I can't see the sly glance at anyone who's looking when I mention his name.
Moving on from a question every singleton fears, to one a certain girlfriend is dying to hear, imagine the scene.
After four years with her firdt true love, my pre-engaged friend was whisked away on a romantic weekend for Valentine's Day. Well, she said romantic, he said dirty. Could this be it?
Over dinner, her partner leaned over and says: " What would you do if I proposed to you, right here, right now?"
She barely had time to take in this momentous question before he sat back and laughed: "I'm not going to, like, but what if I did?"
It wasn't the first time an evil tease like this had occured. She's bee built up and let down so many times she felt like a Lego brick.
Before the trip she was going mad, knowing that he wouldn't be as stereotypical as to propose on 'the most romantic day of the year™'. but secretly, still had everything crossed.
I say ditch the pressure of waiting for him to ask her and use our one in four oppurtunity to do the asking.
Only in Scotland could there be, since 1288, a law that the knave who declines your proposal on a leap year and can not prove he is bothered to another, can be fined anything from a kiss to payment for a silk dress or a pair of gloves. I love this country.
Before I'd finished reading this, I had a list of highly unsuitable fellows, with an article of footwear cross-referenced alongside his name. After all, a silk dress or a pair of gloves was all very well, but in today's money that could buy me that top I had my eye on or the shoes I'd ditched for my Roberto Vianni's.
If only I could get my hands on this piece of legislation for gravitas.
We're all under pressure in one way or another, whether single, engaged, married or divorced, in love, work or money.
But this week, the biggest pressure of all lies with my gentleman caller who called off, to see just how he's going to make it up to me.
Answers on a postcard....
Sunday, February 29, 2004
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Did someone mention love?
Ok admit it. How many of my fellow singletons woke up with a desperate sense of hope on Saturday morning, just in time for the postie and flower-toting delivery girls to arrive?
Liars! You can use every excuse under the sun. Its too comercialised, it's old fashioned, soppy, expensive, 'sentimental tosh', etc etc, but deep down, our excitement does grow at the prospect that somewhere, someone out there has gone out and thought of your enough to buy you that special (and often cheesy) gift.
Obviously no me. I was not up at 8.30am, running to the door in search of hopeless desperation. And I was not disappointed when the only card I found there was from my equally single boy friend (note: boy space friend).
The worst thing is dreaming you've already got up and there is one (or six), making the reality a truly rude awakening when you find only the proverbial bills, bills, bills and the said 'pity' card that we'd arranged to exchange in a previous 'how sad is my life' drinking session.
"Carpe diem!" I proclaimed as I headed to the shops, where I felt a whole lot better - after all, if you can't have love there's always shopping.
And then on Valentine's Day, I did fall in love. My heart was racing. How could something so beautiful exist? Italian, sophisticated, well-nuilt, from a good background and well-heeled.
There, in that department store, I found Robert Vianni, or at least a pair of his shoes. And they were a quarter of the original price - it was love at first sight.
I do believe they were calling out "Take me home!". So I did. It wouldn't have been fair not to.
For at least half an hour I felt fantastic. I was single. I had a new pair of beautiful shoes, with no one to answer to as to why I needed yet another pair - except of course from my bewildered mother - and I was starting to plan a lovely evening of trying my entire wardrobe with them.
That is until my absolutely-not-single shopping buddy set out to create the perfect evening for her and her valentine. Candles, rose petals, good food, good wine, love heart patterned place mats, coasters, napkin rings (you get the idea).
Jealousy now flooded the parts pity had filled earlier. It was then I started to notice the couples, the Romeos standing every few metres grasping bouquets and thousands of cards not bought and not delivered to all those sleeping beautys.
I'm a singleton! Get me out of here!
Carpe what? I was single and it was Valentine's Day. My nearest and dearest ALL had 'dates' in ome respect. The person I wanted to spend it with was on the other side of the country, but he was a non-believer anyway.
In the same respact that if you utter the immortal words that you don't believe in fairies, somewhere in the world, one dies, if a non believer rubbishes romance, somewhere in the world a singleton's heart breaks.
I had to think rationally, What difference did it make? I'd been single for, well, a lot more days than this one so why was I bothered? Possibly because for a fortnight, being in love had been drummed into every orifice from every medium. And what possible use did I have for a foiled heart-shaped balloon and teddy clutching a heart anyway?
Time to take action. Ah yes, that's it. Diem.
So I didn't spend the night alone and bored. Instead I ghose David Gray, a bottle of vino, a luxury face pack, hair mask and a two hour bath. I was so proud of myself that I even left the ridiculously highly calorific ice cream in the freezer.
Even after everyone else had let me down, I couldn't let myself down as well, could I?
So I propose a toast. Next year, let us have a day which we will call St. Single's Day. It shall be full of luxury, shopping, shoes, pampering and nothing resembling hearts, teddy bears or cupids. Chocolates are allowed, as are candles, though only to add ambience to your two hour bath and not in any way for dinner.
The next day I was awoken again by a pityful sound: Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs on Radio 2 - commercialisation at its best. "It's Valentine's Sunday and we'd love to hear from you," the radio announced.
No you wouldn't, Steve, you really wouldnt.
Liars! You can use every excuse under the sun. Its too comercialised, it's old fashioned, soppy, expensive, 'sentimental tosh', etc etc, but deep down, our excitement does grow at the prospect that somewhere, someone out there has gone out and thought of your enough to buy you that special (and often cheesy) gift.
Obviously no me. I was not up at 8.30am, running to the door in search of hopeless desperation. And I was not disappointed when the only card I found there was from my equally single boy friend (note: boy space friend).
The worst thing is dreaming you've already got up and there is one (or six), making the reality a truly rude awakening when you find only the proverbial bills, bills, bills and the said 'pity' card that we'd arranged to exchange in a previous 'how sad is my life' drinking session.
"Carpe diem!" I proclaimed as I headed to the shops, where I felt a whole lot better - after all, if you can't have love there's always shopping.
And then on Valentine's Day, I did fall in love. My heart was racing. How could something so beautiful exist? Italian, sophisticated, well-nuilt, from a good background and well-heeled.
There, in that department store, I found Robert Vianni, or at least a pair of his shoes. And they were a quarter of the original price - it was love at first sight.
I do believe they were calling out "Take me home!". So I did. It wouldn't have been fair not to.
For at least half an hour I felt fantastic. I was single. I had a new pair of beautiful shoes, with no one to answer to as to why I needed yet another pair - except of course from my bewildered mother - and I was starting to plan a lovely evening of trying my entire wardrobe with them.
That is until my absolutely-not-single shopping buddy set out to create the perfect evening for her and her valentine. Candles, rose petals, good food, good wine, love heart patterned place mats, coasters, napkin rings (you get the idea).
Jealousy now flooded the parts pity had filled earlier. It was then I started to notice the couples, the Romeos standing every few metres grasping bouquets and thousands of cards not bought and not delivered to all those sleeping beautys.
I'm a singleton! Get me out of here!
Carpe what? I was single and it was Valentine's Day. My nearest and dearest ALL had 'dates' in ome respect. The person I wanted to spend it with was on the other side of the country, but he was a non-believer anyway.
In the same respact that if you utter the immortal words that you don't believe in fairies, somewhere in the world, one dies, if a non believer rubbishes romance, somewhere in the world a singleton's heart breaks.
I had to think rationally, What difference did it make? I'd been single for, well, a lot more days than this one so why was I bothered? Possibly because for a fortnight, being in love had been drummed into every orifice from every medium. And what possible use did I have for a foiled heart-shaped balloon and teddy clutching a heart anyway?
Time to take action. Ah yes, that's it. Diem.
So I didn't spend the night alone and bored. Instead I ghose David Gray, a bottle of vino, a luxury face pack, hair mask and a two hour bath. I was so proud of myself that I even left the ridiculously highly calorific ice cream in the freezer.
Even after everyone else had let me down, I couldn't let myself down as well, could I?
So I propose a toast. Next year, let us have a day which we will call St. Single's Day. It shall be full of luxury, shopping, shoes, pampering and nothing resembling hearts, teddy bears or cupids. Chocolates are allowed, as are candles, though only to add ambience to your two hour bath and not in any way for dinner.
The next day I was awoken again by a pityful sound: Steve Wright's Sunday Love Songs on Radio 2 - commercialisation at its best. "It's Valentine's Sunday and we'd love to hear from you," the radio announced.
No you wouldn't, Steve, you really wouldnt.
