So I am at work looking forward to my third date and first hotel date with Well Fed Dr Who (so called because he looks like a more rotund David Tennant).

We’ve exchanged some fairly graphic emails, detailing what we both like and don’t like.

He has told me he adores giving oral. Hurrah!

Now I know men do sometimes say that just cos they know us birds like it (just a bit) but from what else he’s said I do actually believe him. So I am beyond excited, especially as he has been very naughty and booked a 5 star hotel whose website alone makes me salivate.

So I have to say I felt it was a little unfair when, at 12.16 this afternoon, Mother Nature delivered her monthly assurance of my non-pregnant status a week early.

Anyhoo… on the internet I go in desperation looking up ‘How to speed up you period’ (sorry boys this is a girly post and what follows may horrify your sensibilities) and it suggests the following:

Increase your activity, exercise increases blood flow (sorry)
Apply a heat pad to your lower abdomen as heat dilates blood vessels and increases blood flow (sorry again)
Use a vaginal douche regularly to flush yourself out (sorry sorry sorry)

So I excuse myself from work, jump in the car and zip off to Tesco in search of the last item, which I have obviously heard of but never had cause to use before. However needs must when the devil drives or whatever they say.

Tesco pharmacy lady tells me that vaginal douches are no longer available over the counter and that I will have to visit my GP. Really? Bugger. Which might be the only option at this rate as despite Well Fed Dr Who’s lusty emails I am not convinced he will feel in the mood to chow down on me if I am bleeding like a stuck pig.

I mooch away from the pharmacy area sorrowfully, pausing only to collect my lunch, and then spot the kitchenware aisle….

Yes indeed, gentle reader, I purchased a turkey baster!

I resisted the temptation to use it at work, didn’t want to leak all over the floor and cause my esteemed colleagues to slip and break something…. so, once safely home, I locked myself in the bathroom, filled the big rubber bulb with warm water and lay on the floor with my feet hooked over the sink, lifting up my butt.

Now bear in mind this object is designed to comfortably baste Christmas turkeys large enough to feed 20 greedy festive guests. The bulb is possibly considerably larger than that of the now-retired vaginal douche. Therefore I almost certainly squirted more fluid into my foofoo than was entirely necessary or wise. Added to that the length of the pipette tube thingy, around 10 inches, which means I have to lift my upper body up in order to reach and angle the thing in. This results in my abdominal muscles clenching to maintain my ‘crunched’ position, feet still basin-locked, so when I squeeze the cooking onion-sized bulb and dispense several fluid ounces of water into my precious portal it is propelled out again almost immediately, with startling velocity and, alas! the addition of Aunt Flo’s monthly contribution, splatting prettily against the white tiles.

I squeal. Bruv, who is passing by on the landing, asks if I am ok. The bathroom door is locked, thank god, and he knows better than to try the door unless requested to help, otherwise he might have been faced with a vision of his sister laying on the floor with her feet in the sink, dress pulled up round her midriff with a 10 inch turkey baster up her snatch, her butt in a pool of bloody water and a macabre new look for the bathroom decor. Bruv puts up with a lot sharing a house with me but I fear homelessness would follow such an epiphany.

Anyway the bathroom is now cleared up and I am sitting on the sofa wearing my dressing gown, big granny pants and clutching my lambikins hot water bottle to my tummy. I have not yet informed Fat Dr Who of my predicament. Maybe he won’t care, I once had a boyfriend who used to PREFER giving me oral when I was in receipt of my Ladies’ Special Monthly Blessing. He was either a fucking weirdo or anaemic.

It would appear there is fuck all I can do about it anyway. But at least I am prepared for catering Christmas dinner.

*A few days later*

An update to this story as I’m sure you’re bound to be on the edge of your seats wondering what happened….

I checked into the Landmark (5 star!!! ) Hotel at 3pm and had no less than THREE baths, all accompanied by the turkey baster. He arrived at 6pm by which time I had concluded that the endeavour had failed (although not in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre style) and I had plugged myself up with the appropriate item, string tucked away out of sight (sorry boys for the image)

I was wearing a naughty basque, stockings etc under my hotel bathrobe but, before he unwrapped me, ‘fessed up that I had something not-very-sexy to tell him and that Mother Nature had played a cruel trick on me a whole week early but that I was still game if he was.

He was. Yippee!

So everything went ahead as planned, maybe not quite as spontaneously but I am comfortable that the hotel will not have to do the ‘boil wash’ on any of the bedlinen.

Afterwards I had nice drinks with a couple of FFDers who have read this story, I did get the turkey baster out for one of them and waved it around in the pub. It made him laugh which was good as he was a bit down.

As for Fat Dr Who… well he assures me he’s up for another meet but who knows? But if not it’s not through want of effort.

Oh and guess what? This morning everything was back to normal – after just 2 days. So the turkey baster can stay for future use (although I will be keeping it under my bed and NOT in the kitchen drawer…)

I had a TERRIBLE date a few weeks ago. It wasn’t a blind date exactly, I had seen a photo (oh yes, I met him through an internet dating site but not this one) but I made the mistake of meeting him without a phone conversation first. I will NOT be doing that again!

The date was arranged for 2pm but I had to make a diversion due to a road accident which made me about 5 minutes late. I was only half a mile away when my phone rang in my handbag. I scrabbled around with my hand while driving and just missed the call. I saw my phone had registered not only the call – from him – but a text too announcing his arrival at the venue. As I was about to throw it back in my bag in annoyance the phone rang again immediately in my hand; it was 2.02pm. I answered and he said he was there ready and waiting, I explained I was very close and that I didn’t have a hands free or power steering, so I’d see him shortly. He then told me he had a really funny story to tell me when I got there, then started to tell it. I said once again as patiently as I could that I was trying to steer round the twisty country roads and not die so I’d see him shortly. Grrr. So he pissed me off before I even got there.

When I arrived he was sitting in his car and literally leapt out as soon as I parked, so I didn’t even have time to check my appearance. Turns out I didn’t need to: His photo had been flattering to say the least and certainly hadn’t given an indication of his enormous nose complete with Trans Am wheel arch nostrils and purple veins. He looked like Arnold Rimmer’s less attractive geeky brother and his voice was that of Mr Bean.

He gave me a kiss hello which I felt was a bit forward and then told me how he’d gone into the bar, approached someone he thought was me and got as far as buying her a drink before they realised they were both there to meet other people on blind dates. As I entered I saw her sitting on the terrace with a loutish looking bloke who was smoking, she still looked relieved though. And blonde. I’m brunette.

We ordered drinks and he put them on a tab, then asked me if I was hungry because he hadn’t had any lunch. I hadn’t anticipated eating at that time and really wanted to avoid extending the meeting longer than absolutely necessary but he ordered a steak sandwich so I ordered a starter (I didn’t have much money on me and wasn’t keen on him paying for me as I certainly didn’t want to feel I ‘owed him’ in any way).

We chatted and he seemed very happy, so much so that he laughed. A lot. He had quite possibly the most embarrassing laugh I have ever heard, kind of like a thumb being dragged over the teeth of a comb and blasted through a loudspeaker. I resolved to be as unentertaining as possible to avoid making him so much as titter but alas my attempts to talk about world famine, animal cruelty and other such gloomy subjects were just met with inappropriate laughter (ok he was probably nervous, but really!). The other diners glanced at me with pitying looks before rapidly averting their eyes. If I’d been a mink I would at this point have started gnawing through my own leg to escape.

After approximately 500 years we finished our meal and he asked me if I wanted another drink or a coffee. No no no I had some work to do I said so had to get going. Now as I mentioned earlier I didn’t want to feel beholden to him but I only had 15 quid in my purse and that was for petrol. However I didn’t think he would accept my offer to go dutch after I’d told him about being made redundant and only working part time… but he did. I handed over the notes as I had no change even though it was more than half the total bill and I’d only had a small dish. He pocketed them and paid with his credit card. I noticed he didn’t leave a tip.

As we walked out I was trying not to break into a run. In his best Mr Bean voice (which was NOT put on) he said ‘Ooh I don’t mind letting you walk in front of me because I get to see your sexy bum!’ Somehow he managed to manoeuvre himself in between me and my car and stopped, looking hopefully expectant. I stretched the truth dramatically and said it had been nice to meet him. He asked me if I wanted to do it again and I very nearly lost it. ‘Er no, sorry, I have to say I don’t see anything happening between us.’ (apart from murder, I thought). He smiled inanely, said ok no problem then leaned in for a kiss. I managed to avert his intended target – my lips – and got a streak of saliva on my cheek, then almost threw myself headfirst into my car.

Within 5 minutes he’d texted me to say what a nice time he’d had and thank me, then when I got home I saw he’d emailed me as well about something we’d talked about at lunch (that I really didn’t care two hoots about but I’d hoped – in vain as it turned out – that at least it wouldn’t make him laugh). The nice polite young lady inside me felt I should reply but I knew if I did it would keep the lines of communication open and he would think there was hope when there was none.

It’s been three weeks and I can ALMOST laugh about it now…. I wish I could say it was the worst date I’ve ever had but alas it was not, not by a long chalk.

Mr Polo Shirt was another cringeworthy one. This time I HAD spoken to him on the phone and all seemed to be well, we had chatted happily for a good hour with minimal awkward silences so we arranged to meet. I travelled 75 miles by train to Richmond to meet him, he came 5 miles down the road in his car and was 20 minutes late. He didn’t apologise and he certainly wasn’t late due to ironing commitments, his navy blue polo shirt looked like he had slept on a dirty floor in it then rolled around a bit for good measure as it was covered in fluff and bits and none too clean. He barely spoke and when he did he revealed yellow teeth caked in tartar. I had to do all the talking which I found painful as he just stared at me like he’d had a lobotomy. After twenty minutes I could bear no more and told him that it was clear things weren’t going to work out so it was best I went. He just nodded dumbly so I left, hurrying down the street as it occurred to me he was so weird he might just follow me and drag me down a back alley.

Good teeth are so important to me and yet I seem to have the grave misfortune to meet men for whom dental hygiene is a long forgotten nuisance. I had a date with a barrister and, after seeing a VERY nice pic and receiving several lengthy, entertaining, eloquent and highly amusing emails from him I had high hopes indeed. I met him in the town centre, he was on his motorbike and we had arranged that I would bring my motorcycle helmet and we’d go to a nice country pub I knew. When he finally took his helmet off at the journey’s end I felt slightly disappointed as his photo had clearly been taken for corporate purposes a good few years earlier. We sat and talked and I was pleased that he was just as entertaining in real life as he was via email, however I did notice that he had that strange habit of talking and laughing while only allowing his mouth to open very slightly. It was like conversing with a ventriloquist who has forgotten his doll. Eventually I said something which he seemed to find hilarious and he let down his guard, threw his head back and laughed uproariously. With shock I realised why he had been so careful to keep his mouth closed: instead of anything remotely resembling teeth I was faced with a motley collection of iron grey stumps. Now teeth don’t have to be perfect for me to find someone attractive but they do need to be a) present b) an appropriate colour and c) looking like actual teeth rather than a row of bombed-out houses. I knew I could never put my lips and tongue anywhere near his mouth. I was almost tempted to ask why he, a very well-paid, reasonably attractive 30-something professional guy had allowed his mouth to fall into such drastic disrepair. I suppose it’s possible he’d had a very severe case of odontophobia but even so such horrific neglect was hard to comprehend. I didn’t see him again and of course I couldn’t bring myself to tell him why.

Perhaps the most sinister first date I’ve ever had via an internet dating site was Robert. We’d exchanged a few emails and he seemed intelligent, sincere and respectful. Also it turned out that he worked with my friend’s husband so I felt that made him ‘safe’, therefore when we met for out date and things started off well I had no qualms about getting into his car and going on to a pub further out of town. After a few drinks there he asked if I’d like to go to his home and he’d make me some dinner as it was still fairly early. Because he’d been so respectful and gentlemanly all evening I didn’t think he had nefarious motives and even if he did I would just decline (this was back in the days when I was a ‘nice girl’) and in actual fact this was not the problem. As we entered his house at first all seemed well. I was slightly surprised by his unusual taste in interior design which was a sort of cross between Regency style and 80s ‘Changing Rooms’ but what really took me aback was the ENORMOUS television – that screen had to be 48” – the massive black leather armchair sat square in front of it with a much smaller black leather sofa as an afterthought crouching nervously at the edge of the room and, on the fat padded arm of the armchair (which had a reclining facility) was a cube-shaped box of tissues. A glance through the window into the back garden confirmed the existence of a satellite dish which I could quite comfortably have stretched out in like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian man. Clearly Robert was unused to entertaining. While he busied himself in the kitchen I explored the room further, taking care not to touch the armchair. You can, I think, tell a lot about someone from their book collection. Now I certainly wouldn’t describe my politics as left wing under any circumstances but I certainly recoiled at the sight of book titles such as ‘Inside the SS’ and ‘Enoch Powell: A Biography’. As we ate dinner I couldn’t think of anything to say, all subjects seemed fraught with peril! So I chatted about my plans to stay my friend Mark who I’d known since I was 19 and who had just moved into a barn conversion in Wales. Robert became quiet and brooding and, as soon as we’d finished the meal, said that he would take me home. After the most perfunctory peck on the cheek (for which I was grateful as I’d been concerned about fending off a snog) he drove off at speed before I was even through my gate. Relieved but at the same time puzzled I switched on my PC to check my emails. Within fifteen minutes I received one from Robert telling me that he did not wish to see me again because ‘spending a night under the same roof as another man is disrespectful to your partner’. Another email popped up seconds later from my friend, warning me that her husband had told her that, in his opinion, Robert was ‘a bit odd’ and that perhaps it might be wise to reconsider my date with him.

This is just a small sample I’m afraid, I’ve had some really shocking first dates via the internet over the years and yet I keep coming back for more. What on earth possesses me to do so, you may well ask? Ah but they’re not ALL terrible, every now and then I have a really GOOD first date.  I have one tomorrow actually.  Will it be worthy of an entry here I wonder?

It’s Not You It’s Me – Handling (or not) Rejection

Nobody likes being rejected, even masochists cannot enjoy the sense of loss when the person who has beaten them so efficiently with a bag of oranges for so long moves on to another weirdo. There are no ‘right’ ways of telling someone you don’t want to see them anymore, however some are more wrong than others.

Top of the list of unacceptable ways to dump someone is the world famous ‘Disappearing Act’, for which there is NEVER any justification. Whether you’re struggling to articulate your rejection speech and so put it off and off and off until it’s so long since you contacted them it’s now embarrassing or whether you’re just an unfeeling shit you will surely burn in hell for doing this.

Then we have the ‘Dump By Text’. Still pretty callous, especially if done just a few hours before a date is supposed to occur. By doing this you will ensure the person you’re dumping realises that they really are better off without you. They’ll be right too.

There are some men in this world who like to adopt the ‘Treat Her So Badly That Eventually She’ll Dump You’ policy of ending a relationship. We know you do this and, trust me, Beelzebub has some particularly nasty burred spikes he is heating up in the furnace just for you, boys.

Most pertinent to yours truly right now is the ‘Saving Your Feelings’ method of dumping. This happens when the person giving the old heave ho gives a reason which is not actually true. As a fairly intuitive individual I usually have a shrewd idea when someone is backing away and I can also often tell when they’re lying. The most popular method of ‘Saving Your Feelings’ dumping is to say that you’re in talks with your ex and are possibly getting back with them so feel it would be dishonest and confusing to see anyone else. This ensures the dumpee has no way of disputing the dumping because it is ‘perfectly reasonable’. I’ve been told this so many times that, if half are true, I’ve reunited more couples than Relate and really ought to be on some kind of commission.
Another good one is ‘I’m in a dark place right now and think I should be on my own for a while’ when only a few days before they were being very open about their multiple dating activities (which was fine as you had an open arrangement). What they really mean, of course, is that they have too many women on the go and are having to cull a few. You were held up to the others and you didn’t make the cut. Yes, you got to Boot Camp but you didn’t even make it to Judge’s Houses in ‘The Shag Factor’. You were found lacking. Knowing that you start to draw your own conclusions as to why: I’m not attractive enough. I’m not slim enough. I’m not toned enough. I’m not hot enough. I’m too old. I’m not sufficiently educated and well-read to meet the standards required. I’m not successful enough. I’m not suitably well-spoken. He’d be embarrassed for his friends to see him with me. I’m not solvent enough. I’m not Good Enough. And the worst thing of all, far worse than the realisation that someone almost certainly thinks many or most of these things about you, is that you think them about yourself.

This wasn’t about some fantastic love affair, it was about a fun arrangement which was supposed to give the ‘selected highlights’ of a relationship without any of the rubbish, giving you both the freedom to see others but spending time with someone who made you laugh, who enjoyed your company and with whom you could have fabulous passionate sex without being made to feel like an unpaid prostitute. It was supposed to put a big fat grin on your face for a while, maybe a few months, but suddenly it was ripped away before you’d barely had a chance to crack a smile, thereby emphasising how shit everything else is at the moment instead of taking your mind off it. And at the centre is the horrible feeling that this person had had enough of you after a couple of shags and didn’t deem you worthwhile getting to know any further, despite their assurance that they’d still like to be friends (ah, even after all these years it still makes me laugh, albeit sardonically, to hear that one!)

This is a classic example of why I like to keep at least two and preferably 3 FBs on the go: losing one has far less impact when you have a couple in reserve. Unfortunately I’ve had a really bad run of luck lately and have managed to lose 3, none of whom had really got established, in quick succession and so am left with nothing. To lose one fuck buddy, Mr Worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune….

The last one, however, really bites because I had high hopes for a lot of fun with him. I made it very clear what I wanted and what I didn’t and he appeared to be just what I was looking for, in the short term at least. Sadly I obviously fell far short of what he was looking for and that, dear reader, is what is making me feel really crap right now. Who knows, maybe if I’d spent more time with him he’d have driven me crazy and I’d have thought him a total knob. But he was fun to be with, good company and a great fuck. I’ve got a trying time ahead of me and it would have been nice to have something saucy to escape to in my head (and via text), but now the coming weeks stretch out in front of me, a yawning void of nothingness. The timing sucks and that, of course, is not his fault anymore than is the fact that I’ve not got enough to hold his interest. I could start trawling again but, my god, I’m so tired of it all. I seem to invest an awful lot of time and effort trying to find the ideal FB only to end up back where I started and jeez there are some real car crashes out there. Maybe I’m one of them or I’d have better luck.

Finally there’s the ‘Brutally, Painfully Honest’ method of dumping. Would I be feeling better right now if he’d been honest with me? Durr no, who the hell wants to hear they’ve been ditched for a statuesque blonde architect, a stunning redheaded property developer, a raven-haired playwright… or probably all three. A short-arsed dumpy middle-aged part time receptionist from Essex can’t compete with that, nor should she try. She just has to hope that she might eventually get to meet someone who thinks she’s worth more than a couple of shags before they lose interest and who doesn’t look like Reg Holdsworth from Corrie. And she really wishes she wasn’t quite so good at telling when people are lying.