“WHAT? Not even a smooch?”

GH (gay husband) is appalled by my lack of primal urges when I’m explaining my last date.

No babe, no. No smooch. No nada.

“But whyyyyyyy?” he just can’t believe me, since I refuse more and more dates nowadays, and therefore should be grateful and frothing about a date with a man who is not 1m shorter than me, and who doesn’t wear tie-dye.

I haven’t written a blog article in months. I started a blog as a self-therapy tool 2 years ago to get over heartbreak.

See, the thing is, I’m not heartbroken anymore. I don’t care about dating at all anymore. You’d have to be pretty amazing to get me to get out of my FULUMPALA after-work outfit.

And I’m just not really the type of gal you can call and say “Wanna meet for a drink in an hour?” And stop my carefully constructed plans that usually involve a conference Skype and a stationary bike? You gotta be kidding.

I have a family member who is as concerned about my singledom as the equivalent of me being a codeine addict who works in a pharmacy.

From the age of 16, I was never single until a year ago. I’m still enjoying eating bacon for dinner and considering dancing solo to Ibiza Classix ’99 exercise at 10pm, and crying over Amelie once a month. Thanks for asking.

In other words, I am really annoyingly happy.

I don’t really want to date, so my eyes are closed, firstly. And then, secondly, something weird happened. Whilst I was talking to GH about the frisk-free date with an otherwise suitable candidate, I had a moment.

I have had serious relationships with some amazingly wonderful men. Men who help little old ladies across the road, send flowers, can cook (even if it’s a very scary tuna bolognese), have great families, have great manners, and who are GOOD people.

Men who would be perfect for someone else but not for me. So therefore, my Mr Next would have to top that, right?

Moving backwards, like the Moonwalk, is something I can’t do very well. Plus it just looks silly when you’re in heels.

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