Sex and the Single Mother

Or, more accurately, No-Sex and the Senile Mother, as this is very much the way things had been going for quite some time here at Axis Towers. It's almost three years since the Axis' dad took off, his heels scorching  skid marks in the hallway, for pastures new (and chavvier, in my opinion, but what else would a newly dumped woman say?). Since I stopped working for the hellish Old Place, and started a far more reasonable job with a far more intelligent manager, I have been feeling, well, well. Unbelievable. As the previous post shows, I even started wearing make-up, and using the mirror. Obviously, what I saw was pretty appalling; after two children and years of neglectful self-care I look more like my grandmother than she probably does (God rest her soul). Dropping cheeks, one eye that looks permanently lop-sided, sparse and inconsistent eyebrows, an inexplicable clump of spots on the cheeks, and - worstest of all - the Mummy Tummy. Ugh. Hideous. Nothing can be done about the Mummy Tummy. I know that without even trying. (Of course, this might be part of the problem, but I'm too terrified by it to try and deal with it. Better to pretend it just isn't there.) The Mummy Tummy is truly horrid, flaccid handfuls of post-pregnancy stretched flesh, clinging on to your body despite your desperate wishes for it to just fall off. Of course, some people I know were leaving hospital, post-delivery, in their pre-pregnancy jeans. Good for them. I'm absolutely bloody delighted for them. I, however, was not. I have Never Been the Same Again.

Such a brutal knock to my confidence was caused by the MT that I also had decided I was probably going to spend the rest of my life alone. There's hardly a lot of talent around here in sunny SB - and besides, once Daddio left me a stranded single mother, several of my married friends politely but rapidly chose to cease and desist with the offers of dinner and drinks chez leurs (I know that that's not proper French) in case I chatted up their husbands. Ha! I wanted to shout; more fool you - I'm free now - I'm not going near any of those feckers EVER AGAIN, so don't you worry, sister (if sisterhood is, in fact, a concept that is anything other than alien to you). I mean, I had the Axis. I had a job that I and everyone else who worked there loathed in sufficient measure to require post-horror drinks on a regular basis to dissect the latest idiotic move by the management, therefore bonding many of us as close friends. I had great friends and neighbours. I had a garden. I did not need, nor want, nor ever plan to be ever again with, a man.

However, the weird, irrational, biological twitch cannot be controlled by sheer willpower, and sure enough, I began wondering about that chromosome-deficient half of the human race once again. Admittedly, it was in a stop-start-y kind of way, but then the inevitable happened: someone pointed out to me the usefulness of having someone else around to help control the Axis. I can't remember who; it might have been PregBF, it may have been GBF, but whoever it was, I began thinking, WHAT a good idea, fairly quickly. And also - someone who could reach things - how I missed the sheer reach of Daddio's 6'3" for opening windows, cleaning tops of cupboards (ha!) and such like! So it was to the internet - in particular, a certain broadsheet's dating site, the equivalent of the singles bar for over-30s who know their arancini from their armpit. Thus, I could specify. 5'12" and above, please. Certain level of education (ok, snobby, but with reason). No vegetarians. Must like guitar music and have at least heard of, if not have a vast collection of, Sub Pop vinyl and/or back issues of the NME (no later than 2002 though, that would be very sad). Over 30. Can complete this sentence: 'Punctured bicycle, on a hillside, desolate...'. Laughs loudly and often, can wink without looking like they should've gone to Specsavers, DOES NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES think 'Thatcher had a point', can wash their own pants AND fold them AND put them away, makes loud appreciative noises when sampling my cooking (which is faultless) and bloody well washes up afterwards. Oh, and also a chance to break my peculiar habit - notably, that every man I've ever been involved with has had more than a passing fondness for the old weed. Why? I don't, especially! Why do I go for them? At least on the internet  I could filter out the bong-lovers.

Obviously, I didn't say any of this. Instead I went for the usual blarney about wanting someone I can connect with, someone who is kind and generous and enjoys life and blah blah blah blah blah. I may even have mentioned James Joyce. Honestly. Who gives a crap about James Joyce?

Quite deservedly, the male population of this particular site responded with a collective 'Meh.'. Too idiotic to mend my mistakes (which included a profile pic taken the day after the Kong had accidentally broken my nose - about which, more later, if you can stand the suspense), I dealt with it by checking the site daily and sulking at the lack of interest. Until, of course, I got an email from a man who seemed Just My Type - oooh, yes he did. Bit alternative. Quite intellectual. Tall, pale, Welsh, glasses, longish hair, same interests, correct spelling and grammar. And the best thing was - he was fit as a butcher's dog. Sporty but 'without the connotations that that term usually implies', or so he claimed, running, cycling, surfing, footballing and presumably, if he'd wanted to, pirouetting his way into my affections via some parma-violet prose. I was pretty convinced you can't do a half marathon in 1 hour 40 if you've been smoking up a storm the night before.

After a few messages we decided to meet. I summonsed Counsel Inc, who is also of South Asian extraction, round to discuss. 'Oooh,' said Counsel Inc. 'He's been to India. And...oh, God! He says no country has affected him as profoundly...bloody hell. You're going to spend your life cooking chapati in his kitchen while his mum and dad try to plot how to set fire to your sari and make it look like an accident and he does yoga in the front room instead of getting a job.' She peered more closely at the pictures. 'And I'd put money that any date with this guy will end in you smoking weed behind Caerphilly Castle. You're going to be high as a kite when you get home.' I protested feebly, but in truth I didn't really care. It didn't really matter what this guy was like (to some extent, obviously, for safety's sake, if he appeared at all mentally unstable, predatory or admitted to liking Robbie Williams I would be right outta there), this was a big, big step for me to take, and take it I would, as soon as humanly possible.

In the two weeks leading up to the big day I did more exercise than I have ever done in my life. Was it possible to get sporty in such a short time? I would find out. Nothing really happened, except my resting heart rate was lower. The Axis thought it most amusing that I could run up the path with them after a couple of days so got their scooters out to improve my speed, the encouraging coaches that they are - although 'COME ON FAT MUM!!!' may not have been the boost I was looking for...I laid off the booze (a bit), took some vitamin supplements and made a hideous face mask out of mashed bananas, a couple of eggs and some oatmeal. It did nothing. I considered making it into muffins but decided against. In the end I plucked, trimmed, buffed, smoothed, moisturised and polished myself until I was as silky and soft as the Kong's backside. Straight after a bath that is. Definitely not at any other time.

I was ready. I got on the train. The train arrived on time. I was on time. No! I was early! This never happens, how has this happened? I ring GBF in a panic. 'Help! Whaddoo I do? I'm early!' Relax, he said, how early? 'Ten minutes!' GBF gave a snort of derision. 'Ten minutes?! Well, for you, that's like a month, I suppose...shut your face, go get a coffee and sit down with that copy of the New Statesmen you've bought purely to show him you're intellectual.' I protested, feebly once more. 'I didn't get it for that! I just...never get much of a chance to read it these days...I...ok, yeah, I did. But where's the harm? A picture says a thousand words and there are lots more words and pictures inside so I reckon...' GBF sighs contemptuously and tells me to shut up and sit down. I do so, having first appraised the bartender. Nice, friendly, handsome-ish. Wonder if...? No, I cannot start looking with interest at every man I meet. Every bloke that comes in, I wonder, is that him? Until finally, he comes in. It must be him. Cute, tall, confident, chatting happily to the bartender. He looks over - and walks in the other direction. Then the guy behind comes up to me. 'Hello,' he says nervously, 'I think you might be my date.'