Same shit, different day

Embargo lifted.

So the guy who, last Sunday eve, suggested we meet for drinks, and then, having vetted me over beers, suggested we go on for food; who then kissed me, and told me I was beautiful, and said he wanted to see me again; who then texted me when I got home, suggesting we meet again; who then texted me again early the following evening, in full sobriety, saying he was a little busy this week but that he would drop me a line over the weekend to make a plan for the following week, and then added a previously-unused 'x': that guy? I never heard from him again.

I spent the week in my most hated state, that of feverish impotence, where someone is making a decision about me and I can do absolutely diddly squat to affect the outcome. The utter loss of control is, for an organised, capable, absolutely unspiritual individual such as myself, nothing short of torture. I would rather have spent the week being called ugly on successive days by a selection of lice-infested tramps. Ugly I can deal with. Ugly is in the eye of the beholder. Ugly is subjective fact, and can be altered. Waiting, on the other hand, is unbearable. Waiting affects me every second of every day. Waiting ruined my week and then it pretty much ruined my weekend.

I went away to the countryside on Friday afternoon, desperate for a change of scene having been in London for 55 consecutive days and, my diary informs me, in at home resting for only six of them. Lucy and Jake were in fine fettle and their two gorgeous nippers were bright of eye and bushy of metaphorical tail. The rain lashed against the windows and we snuggled in front of the fire, ate cake and watched The Thick Of It, and all would have been perfect if there hadn't been a silent iPhone on my bedside table, screaming 'HA HA HA YOU ARE STILL REJECTED' every time I checked it. The butterflies that had descended heavily into my stomach and larynx last Monday had grown fatter and angrier, and by the time I got back to the safety of my flat on Sunday afternoon, I so longed to be without the uncertainty that I engaged in an act of deliberate self-sabotage, and texted the guy. It was a bad text, utterly pointless with undesired yet completely unavoidable undertones of 'I reeeeeeeallllllyyyy liked you', but it had the desired effect - within five minutes, the guy who had avoided my phone for seven days replied, saying nothing of any import, asking no questions and typing no kisses. I sent back a sarcastic one liner smacking of unconcealed bitterness, and that was that.

Instantly, like clouds of bats swooping and screaming out of the Batcave, the butterflies departed. I felt my stomach calm and settle for the first time in a week and since then, I've been back to my old self. No joke. I barely care. I mean, obviously it smarts a bit. I'd rather he had found me irresistible, but I am old enough to know that not everyone will, and that is fine. They're obviously idiots, but it is fine.

None of the saga was about him specifically. I can hardly even remember what he looked like. I do remember us getting on really well, but I also remember that he was obviously fairly apolitical, and the fact that he basically got expelled from his school, and went to a rubbish university, and can't really string a sentence together on paper, and smokes like a chimney. I had not planned on spending the rest of my life with this man. All I knew was that I wanted to see him again, and that someone I fancied was weighing me up. The powerlessness was everything that I detested - the boy himself, and the outcome, seemed almost inconsequential. I didn't mind if he liked me or not - I just wanted to know which one it was so that I could adjust my mental abacus accordingly.

Normally, when I emerge from a grim experience, I can reassure myself that I've learned from my mistakes. There is an upside, I tell myself - I won't do that again. But in this situation, there's nothing I could have done differently. All I did was meet him, like him, and agree to see him again. I didn't screw up, so I can change nothing about my behaviour next time. The one thing I'd like to be different - the butterflies - are beyond my control. Believe me, I did my best. I told myself fifty times a day not to get excited, that he probably wouldn't call, that it would hardly be the end of the world, that he was too short anyway and that there are plenty more fish in the sea. But the butterflies remained, flapping their stupid fat wings and wiggling their antennae at all times of the night and day. I dearly wish I could meet someone fun, go on a great date, and then wake up the next morning feeling the same level of excitement as if I'd been to the supermarket. I'd love to wait until a boy has proved his worth to me before getting ants in my pants about him. But it is just not possible for me. If I like someone, if I think someone might have potential, it's exciting. The unpleasantness and the butterflies are inevitable. There is no way to trust someone straight away, and thus this stage of not knowing is an intrinsic part of falling in love. It is, surely, impossible to meet someone without it. So basically, unless I give up on love altogether, I will have to go through this again, possibly several times. Not a prospect I relish.

It is the first sign of madness to continue to do the same thing repeatedly but continue to hope for a different result. However, maybe, as my friend Sara pointed out, if the same action is repeated with different boys, then it is not quite the same thing, and therefore it is not madness, but merely hope, which sounds simultaneously better but sadder. For hope is not far from desperation. The fine line we tread as single women who ultimately would like a mate is barbed. Either you settle for second or third best - something I've tried to do and failed. Or you give up and buy a cat - something I don't want to do. Well, I want the cat. But not yet. So I carry on along the thorny path, hoping that against all the odds, one of the two remaining single men in London who aren't complete twunts realises that I am a ridiculously good catch. The last thing I want is to become one of those haggard old cynical cows who laughs bitterly in the face of any guy who dares pay her a compliment - but I do wish I'd stop having these disappointing experiences. Un. Pleasant. And it does get a bit depressing when the only thing my mum ever seems able to say to me is 'Keep on trucking.' It's good advice, but we all need a trip to the service station every now and then. Where is my Leigh Delamere?

Ah well, it's over again. Until the next time.