Chapter Eight

I hate to be shallow, and buy into that whole porn queen persona, but having a bald muff is really sexy! Now I’ve got over that initial horror at the pink, turkey plucked skin, it actually feels really nice. It’s a beautiful sunny Friday and my white gipsy skirt is billowing in the breeze. I’d like to think I look like Marilyn Monroe standing over the vent, but I catch my reflection in the revolving door smoked glass windows and realise that I don’t look anything like her. More like Marilyn Manson.

“Hi Sophie,” Ellie, the receptionist smiles at me as I glide across the marble-floored reception area. It’s great when people start to recognise you at a new job, but it takes a while sometimes. Ellie seems really nice and I smile back at her, with a little wave. I wait for the lift, aware that she’s looking at the back of my head and wondering whether she can hear my stomach rumbling. In an attempt to be on time I didn’t get the chance for any breakfast, and I’m starving already. I try to focus on how I’m going to handle the speed dating event in a bid to ignore my hunger pangs. I’m both nervous and excited about speed dating, but feel slightly less worried as I’ve tried to reassure myself that I’m there for research purposes only. I’d love to ask Maria Delaney whether she’s ever been speed dating. She seemed so enthusiastic about me going and it got me wondering. She is married though, to a guy who, like her, seems to work all the hours god sends. Maybe their entire marriage is speed dating – they probably live and breathe the 3 minute slots! The lift pings and the silver doors slide open silently. I step in, along with another guy who arrives at the last minute. The doors nearly catch him as they slide closed.

“Whoa, that was close,” he grins, a twinkle in his eye. “Must stop buying my breakfast from Starbucks!” He holds up a large Styrofoam mug, a small waft of steam snaking from the tiny mouth hole cut into the lid and shakes a couple of brown paper bags. The smell of the coffee is heavenly.

“Mmmm, you can’t beat a good coffee first thing in the morning,” I offer, wishing that I’d thought of calling in for a takeaway before work. “I’m always too late to stop off on the way, and that smells great.”

“Too right! Can’t start without my Macchiato! Floor number?”

“Oh, 3 please.”

He smiles, “Knew it. Woman to Woman offices isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I’m blushing! How embarrassing. What’s my skin trying to do – make a complete fool out of me? Suddenly I’m acutely aware of my waxed poontang and it’s as if he knows. He smiles at me as the lift stops at number 2.

“Oh, my stop.” Thank god for that, I’m desperate to say. But I don’t. Instead, I move toward the buttons and press 3 again. He blocks the doors as they slide closed, with his foot, housed in a rather large tan leather shoe,

“Here,” he holds out one of the brown bags to me, “seeing as you didn’t have time to stop for breakfast. Have one of these.

“Oh no, I couldn’t. It’s OK, really.”

“Go on,” he urges, his brown eyes dancing and white teeth looking really good. I’m hating myself for being so easily swayed, “it’s a lemon muffin. A skinny one too.”

“Alright, thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I owe you one,” I quip, completely genuine, but think maybe he takes me up the wrong way.

“Well, I’ll hold you to that,” he laughs as the lift doors begin to close. He says quickly, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Sophie. My name’s Sophie.”

“Great!” his voice is muffled now as the doors are virtually shut. I hear him shout, “See you around Sophie. I’m Adrian.”

*

I wish I had a work friend. In my old job I could have breezed into the office and Katie and Liz would have wanted to know all about the gorgeous guy in the lift when they’d noticed the huge muffin on my desk. I sit closest to AJ and have no desire to even look at her, never mind talk to her. The muffin tastes great, light and citrus on my tongue and I just know the poppy seeds are scurrying into the small crevices between my teeth. I really want to turn around and gurn at AJ, a mouth full of muffin and crusty seeded teeth – but I don’t. I’m too busy checking our online directory and super-sleuthing my way to find an ‘Adrian’ who works on floor 2…..

*

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Adrian was pulling his elbow back sharply, praising himself on his smooth tactics. He’d deliberately bought an extra lemon muffin with the sole intention of giving it to Sophie and it had paid off, waiting around in reception for that extra fifteen minutes. And so his plan had begun. He was going to be the one to make Sophie Regan break her shallow ‘vow’ to remain single. Let Woman to Woman write a feature on that! He was glad that he’d decided to leave yesterdays t-shirt on his floordrobe, choosing instead to wear the new Paul Smith one. It looked fucking hot under his faded blue jacket and jeans and never failed to give him an air of urban playboy. Now he’d made the initial introduction, luring Sophie Regan into bed would be like taking candy from a babe.

*

I’m sick. Don’t let me drink again. I’m serious. I can’t handle it. It’s been such a great day at work. I knew it would be, after such a great start. And my smooth snatch and great day finished off with a bottle and a half of Pinot Grigio has made a fool out of me. The laugh’s on me. Again. And those bloody mobile phones! I don’t even know why I have one!

I know, I’m not making sense. But it’s like this. I’m laying on my sofa and the room is spinning. Just a little bit. And I turned over the telly and who’s on bloody Jonathon Woss show? Ben Scott. Yes! The Ben Scott. Chat show host Ben Scott who I went out with for five months and who I really really liked but didn’t like me as much as I liked him obviously! And it’s made me sad. And made me realise how much I liked him and how lonely I am and how I wish I had someone to show off my new poontang to. And I did the unthinkable. I texted him.

“I know it’s stupid!”

But I did it. It wasn’t that bad. No, I don’t want to tell you.

OK – I will. It said something like ‘hey big boy – I’ve got something here for you to unwrap if you think you’re man enough.’

I know, it’s shit. I pressed that damned button too quick. But it’s worse than that.

Afterwards I sent another one. Because I felt so stupid, that’s why.

It just said ‘please ignore that text – it was meant for someone else.’

It’s all going Pete Tong….

Chapter One

Chapter Two
Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Nine

Pulling Power #3

The third in this series.. Please send in links to your chat up/dumping YouTube vids, or email mpegs video'd on your mobile to Sophie for inclusion in this 100 week documentary!



Sophie wants you to be these documentaries - so get out your mobiles or camcorders and start filming!

Listen to podcast of week 1 chapters

I have podcasted the chapters from Week 1, broken down into bite sized chunks.
Feel free to download these audio files to listen to when you're bored at work, or sitting on the train watching that really gross man stuffing a cereal bar into his mouth or when your friend/boyfriend/kids are moaning and you want the equivalent of sticking your fingers in your ears and singing 'lah lah lah,' really loud!...;)

Chapter Seven

OK, so going speed dating means I need to look good. So much for my plans to just be ‘me’? If I’m so intent on staying single, on not worrying about what ‘look’ I’m portraying, if I’m so hot on being happy in my skin, what the hell am I doing here? Laying on a beauty therapists’ couch listening to classical music and breathing in the heady scent of ylang ylang, in a g-string? Am I mutating into my ex, Jonny? I’m sure I’m being waxed from the ears down! So far I’ve been stripped of my armpit fuzz and leg stubble and I’m now sticky and sweaty as the pneumatic-chested therapist is prepping my bikini area. She’s promised me a tidy landing strip – and I’m terrified! Thankfully I’d been forewarned by Jennifer to spend a little time trimming my lady garden, which, she told me, means that it won’t hurt as much when the hairs are ripped out at 100mph on a 10cm strip of calico. I hope this will all be worth it – I’ve booked in for a pedicure and back massage afterwards, in the hope that it’ll relax me between traumas. The first one being deemed as the woman who chose to stay single, the next one being the wax of my entire topiary of pubic hair, and the last (but probably not the least) one being my night at speed dating. I mean, what if you meet a guy and you get on really well for the 3 minutes – could you spend a lifetime simply fitting him in for 3 minute slots? It’d take a lot of pressure out of the relationship problems and would leave loads of lovely free time to have more beauty treatments, see friends and go shopping! I’m almost looking forward to the speed dating event and it’s helping take my mind off of the awful Danny-the-chav-Mullins!

*

Adrian Ford noticed Sophie before Ellie had pointed her out, and he hadn’t been disappointed. She was cute with her long brown hair and nice arse – it was the icing on the cake to find that she was Sophie Regan. She was slightly girl-next-door, but he hadn’t let that put him off before. Tossing chicken strips into a hot wok and twisting the lid from a jar of sweet lemon sauce, he wondered which approach he’d use on her – the fellow journalist route, the I’d-like-to-be-friends, or just the good old reliable I’m-interested-in-your-life one? Either way, he’d soon put paid to her staying single promise. He sang loudly to his Stereophonics CD, changing the words to,

“And she’ll be gagging for meeeeee, by the end of the month!”

*

“So Tam, it’s bloody agony. I’ve had to come straight home, strip off and starfish, naked in bed. Even the cold duvet against my bald pube area hurts.” I lift the duvet and look down the plane of my body, at my bald and pink pubic mound. “It looks like the tip of a Swan Vestas! But hey, at least my toenails look the nuts!”

“Ha ha! It’ll be fine by the morning. I’ve had a Brazilian loads of times.”

“Yeah,” I groan, “but I bet only when you’ve been in a relationship? Nobody would have this done if they were resolutely staying single!”

“No,” she giggled, “probably not!”

“I mean, it’s not like I’m actually going speed dating to meet anyone, so why did I bother?”

“Because you said that your legs were like kiwi skin and you wanted to wear a dress on Saturday! Anyway, it makes you feel good and boosts your confidence. God, Sophie, why shouldn’t you feel good about yourself. If staying single means turning into a yeti then you’re gonna be single for a whole lot longer than a year!”

She makes me laugh sometimes, with her bluntness, “OK, point taken. I’m going to wear my wrap dress and Moschino sandals. That screams, ‘take me seriously, but respect my femininity’ don’t you think?”

“Em, no. Not really, Soph, but whatever you feel comfortable in. Listen, I was talking to one of the A&E nurses today; she went speed dating last week and loved it. Until she realised that she was sat opposite an ex boyfriend.”

“OhMyGod! What did she do?”

“Well she said that she saw him in the room and counted along, realising that it was inevitable that he’d be one of her 3 minute slots. She just gritted her teeth, managing to make a sneaky exit when he was 2 tables away. But she said the night was going great until then. 4 guys asked for her number and she’s got dates set up for the next fortnight.”

“Yeah, but I’m not going for that. You could though, Tam? How serious is it between you and this Pete guy?”

Tamsin sounds strange as she replied, “Serious? Sophie, I’m mad about him. I’d never cheat on Pete. Ever.”

I’m surprised at her reply. I wasn’t suggesting that she cheat on him; simply have a few laughs on our speed dating night out.

“OK, I didn’t mean to imply anything. I know you like him. Maybe I’ll get to meet him properly soon, eh?”

“Yeah. You can. I’ll sort it for sometime soon.”

“Right then, I’m going to sleep now. Pick you up Saturday at 7.30pm, OK?”

“Great. See you then, Soph.”

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Eight

Send your videos to Sophie

Why not send in your videos of chat up lines or reasons for being dumped?

The best (and worst!) ones will feature in the Pulling Power mini documentaries - which will be published as a full length feature at the end of the story - and will feature in Sophie's story. There are hundreds of cliche'd lines out there, but there are also loads of really funny and original techniques too!

Email them to singlesophieregan@yahoo.co.uk - video them from your mobile, send them as MP3 voice recorded messages, or through any other format that suits you!

Can't wait to see them - so get recording!

Chapter Six

AJ’s bitchiness is only the tip of the iceberg. Delaney wants me to research speed dating for next week’s piece, insisting that I find a good event on Saturday night and go along. This is ridiculous and completely against what I’m standing for! I’d made my decision to stay single to keep myself away from the leering geeks and slimy creeps that frequent the singleton scene. So how do I find myself spending the entire day Googling every speed dating event in the city of London, in the hope that I might find one that I’d be willing to attend? I’m angry at Maria Delaney, pushing me into this situation and I’m kicking myself for not being more outspoken and telling her that I don’t want to write about my romantic rehabilitation. On checking out speed dating I’m shocked at the amount of choice, amazed to discover the extent to which I’ve been limiting myself to meeting guys through friends and friends-of-friends and random bumping into in the ice cream aisle of the supermarket. Well it’s no wonder that I haven’t found anyone decent! By the looks of it all the eligible bachelors are sat at home, getting piles and drinking cans of beer as they log on to the speed dating highway! There are a good proportion of guys who look like their photos have already appeared on Crimewatch, but then there are others who are positively George Clooneyesque! But can they all really own their houses outright and be earning between £50,000-£75,000 a year? If so, what are they doing on these dating sites and speed dating? And if they’re working 23-hour days, when do they expect to have the time for dating? I have 2 nights to figure out what to wear, where to go and to persuade Tamsin to come with me. And what ‘look’ do I go for? As if I’m there as a genuine speed dater looking for a guy that’s excited me with his conversation in only 3 minutes – or do I go ‘arty’, under the guise of journalist on research?

Exhausted, I leave the office at 6 ‘o’clock, with my head spinning, trying to excite myself about going home to an empty flat tonight…

*

Adrian had spent the last half an hour sitting with Ellie on reception, gazing into her eyes and asking her about herself. It was his most favoured chat up technique, to ask relentless questions to a woman – to get her talking about herself, so that she would be flattered and intrigued at his interest. “Every woman loves to talk. Especially about herself,” he’d laugh with Trev from their desks on a daily basis. He’d taken the chance to pick up Ellie’s copy of Woman To Woman, flicking through until he’d found Sophie Regan’s Relationship Rehab feature.

“Hey, this is new, isn’t it?” he’d asked Ellie, interrupting her mid-flow as she regaled the intricacies of her divorce. She tingled at the smell of him as he leaned toward her, ‘accidentally’ pushing the back of his tanned hand onto her leg as he showed her the magazine. She flushed, “Oh, yes. That’s the new assistant features writer. Looks like she’s taken over Victoria Harris’ weekly column. Mind you,” she went on, “that Victoria hasn’t been in for weeks.”

“Yeah, thought I hadn’t seen her. So, this Sophie one, what’s she like? I haven’t seen any new faces around.”

“I’ll point her out to you if she goes by,” Ellie offered, before taking a deep breath and continuing with her tale of woe about her ex-husband and his new fiancée’s engagement bling. Ade zoned out to her whilst still gazing into her eyes and nodding at the right junctures. But inside he was desperately hoping that this Sophie Regan one wasn’t some fusty, student-type – it would be so much more fun if she presented at least a glimmer of challenge.

*

It’s time like this I’m relieved that Mum lives in L.A. now. It’s bad enough having to write this column about not just being single, but choosing to, but it would be a million times more mortifying if my mother was here to read it. And thank god I moved from Dublin; at least there’s less chance that all those hideous exes will be witness to my embarrassing portfolio of dating horrors. It would be too much – the notion that all those married men that had chanced their luck with me would recognise themselves – even worse, that their wives would recognise them. But then again, I’m assuming that they have a single conscience between them! It might be lonely here in London, with no family and only Tamsin as my true friend, but at least there’s an element of damage limitation in terms of my reputation. If Tam won’t come with me on Saturday night, then I’ll have to go speed dating alone. And if that doesn’t scream ‘desperate’ then I might as well go wearing a wedding dress and sandwich board advertising for a ‘vacancy’!

I kick off my beaded sandals and leave them in a clumsy ballet ‘position 2’ in the hallway, throwing down my bag and mobile onto the sofa as I flop down beside them. I must call Tam sooner rather than later if I’m going to make sure she can come on Saturday. She’s been acting slightly strange for the last couple of weeks, but insists that it’s simply work pressures. She’s a nurse and gives 200% to her work, so I suppose it’s unfair of me to expect her to be ‘chipper’ all the time. Lying on my back, the leather cool against my bare legs as my gipsy skirt as flicked up onto my thighs, I grapple for my mobile which has slid somewhere beneath my bum. I scroll through and find Tam.

*

Tamsin loved afternoon sex. It had a thrilling naughtiness to it, ‘doing it’ during the daylight hours, the sunshine warming the bed and making her skin tender and soft to the touch. She’d been in bed with Pete since 3.45, when he’d arrived with a twinkle in his eye and a hard on in his pants that was positively bursting to get to her. Her knickers lay in shreds at the bottom of the stairs, as he’d ripped them from her and lifted her up, wrapping her legs around himself as he carried her upstairs. Once again he was fabulous – knowing just what to do, and when, and how! He had 9 years on her, and 100’s more partners. Pete was man who knew just how hard to bite on her nipple, how slowly she liked to be rubbed and how he got the best from her when he was behind and pulling her long dark hair a little roughly. Laying, spooning in her bed, she could feel his hairy chest against her back and the warm cup of his groin behind her bum cheeks. He was breathing deeply and slowly, indicating that he was sleeping. She slowly raised her arm to check her watch – 6.53pm – he’d been here just over 3 hours and she so wanted not to wake him. If she woke him, he’d scream that it was nearly 7 ‘o’clock and rush into the shower, back into his suit and straight out of her front door. And she didn’t want that. Not yet. She hadn’t reckoned on her mobile ringing. She’d forgotten to set it to ‘silent’ as she usually did whenever she was with Pete. His job was demanding and their time together seemed constantly limited, so any moment that had together was precious. She lost control of things from then. Pete woke with a lazy groan and she’d have given anything to slide on top of him again, but he kissed her shoulder before getting out of the bed. She knew she’d lost him to the shower and so answered her phone. It was Sophie.

“Hey, Tam?” she was light and breezy.

“Hi,” croaked Tamsin, desperate to shake the sex out of her voice, “what’s up?”

“You OK?”

“Yeah,” she coughed lightly to clear her throat, and laughed, “yeah, I’m fine. Just having an afternoon ‘sleep’!”

“Sleep?”

“Em, yeah,” and then she whispered, “Pete’s here.”

Sophie laughed, “Ah, you dirty dog, you 2 been in bed all afternoon?”

“Not all afternoon,” she giggled.

“I suppose you’ll be out with him on Saturday night won’t you?”

“No! I mean, no. Not Saturday. Not this week.”

“Great! You can come speed dating with me then.”

“Jesus, Soph. Speed dating? I thought you were on a mission to stay single! Change of plan already?” she began to laugh a little, “Bloody hell, it’s only been one day and you’ve changed your mind already?”

“Not me. Delaney. She said the piece was a hit and wants me to write about my life and my ‘mission’. Starting with bloody speed dating on Saturday. Please say you’ll come.”

At that moment Pete emerged from the bathroom and strode, naked into her room again. The very sight of his toned body caused her to ache,

“Oh yeah, not a problem. I’ll have no problem coming.”

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Seven

Second Life

There's been some discussion over in the Staying Single forum about where Sophie will meet you in Second Life, (and the double entendre of a 'second life' that exists when you have an affair with a 'married'!)
I think we'll meet in the Blarney Stone Irish Bar - what better for a venue for singletons than an introductory few drinks in a lively bar!!

(That's me with her back to you all, in the blue vest top at the Blarney Stone)

If you've never been into Second Life before, then sign up. It's free to join and rather addictive. And it's a great place to meet new people and have a few laughs too! I agree, it is kind of weird at first, and my first reaction was that I didn't have enough time in the day for my First Life, never mind my Second one, but with a little trial and error I now love it! If you have any problems nip over to the Staying Single forum and I'll help you get fixed up!

More details on finding The Blarney Stone Irish Bar to follow and if anybody knows of any other excellent venues for us girls (and guys) to get together, then let us all know! Waiting to hear from you, feel free to join in - the more the merrier!

Join the forum discussion

Come and have your voice heard at the Staying Single forum.
Join in the discussion about why Sophie chose to stay single, and share your funny and awful experiences of the dating scene...

Chapter Five

Adrian Ford shuffled in the Starbucks coffee queue, looking down at his new tan leather shoes and wondering whether they made his feet look too big. He’d sweet-talked the cute stylist at yesterday’s photoshoot, giving her the wink that never failed to work, virtually charming the designer shoes from her suitcase and into his desk drawer. But now he wasn’t so sure – about her or the shoes. He ordered his caramel macchiato, with 2 skinny lemon muffins as an afterthought, flashing his smile at the Polish girl behind the counter, enjoying watching her blush. As he walked into his offices just off of Oxford Street he tapped his jeans pocket, checking that his iPod was still there.

“Morning Ellie!” he breezed at the chocolate-skinned receptionist and placed the brown paper bag on her desk, full of the promise of yet another Starbucks surprise.

“Ade. What’ve you got me this time? You know I’m being good.”

“Babe,” he winked, “you look great as you are. Anyway,” he looked over his shoulder as he approached the lift, “it’s a skinny one.” She smiled and peeked into the brown paper bag, mouthing a ‘thank you’ as the lift doors closed and he disappeared.

Contrary to popular belief Adrian was worth a lot more to the men’s magazine Geezer than his fortnightly ‘Ade Gets Laid’ quirky feature. That had really come to fruition after a drunken bet with the deputy editor who had doubted Adrian’s ability to sell the idea to the editor. Ade had won and the jokey 800-word feature became just a fraction of what he wrote for Geezer and was an unfair window for the journalistic skills of Adrian Ford. As usual the daily press cuttings had already been placed on his desk and he prised the plastic lid from his coffee and lightly blew at the milky froth. Flicking through the latest news and celebrity scandals he waited for something to jump out at him – something he could write about for Geezer – another great story that men would love to read. He reached page 20 before he spotted anything. And then he saw the column from Woman to Woman. He read it intently, smiling into his coffee as he slurped at it, his feet up on his desk,

‘…and so I’ve checked myself into Relationship Rehab. Staying Single is a positive choice, which buys me the luxury of just being into ‘me’. With no man to consider I can concentrate on my inner and outer beauty! And what plans I have! No more ‘D.S.S.’. No more married guys or clumsy kissers. Forget looking for my G-Spot – I know where it is, thanks very much….’

Ade laughed out loud, cuffing his frothy lips with the back of his tanned hand.

“Who is this woman?” he scanned the page for her name. “Sophie Regan, eh? He went onto read a little more before resting the page back down on his desk and shook his head,

“Babe. You sound perfect for my next feature.” He called out to Trevor Malone, his co-features writer, “Hey Trev, you know a Sophie Regan? From Woman to Woman?”

Trev shook his head, a vacant expression on his face, “Never heard of her. Must be new.”

Ade slurped at his coffee, placed the Styrofoam mug on his desk and rubbed his hands together,

“Excellent. I love a challenge…”

*

I feel good this morning. The sun woke me, teasingly dancing over my face in a playful way and I nearly woke up giggling. The weather’s been delightful and news presenters all over the country have been telling us how it’s the ‘hottest May since 1801”, and promising an even more scorching June! In a way, writing the column about Relationship Rehab was strangely therapeutic and I’m excited about going into work today. As I chop a banana into chunks and throw them into my smoothie-maker along with a handful of blueberries and raspberries I remember what I’d written and left on Delaney’s desk last night. A wave of sickness churns in my stomach as I watch the reds and purples cling to the glass jug as the blender screams, “you’ve gone public with your horrorscopes!” My historical farce, my predictions and premonitions of dating terrors that I’d forecast. My public decision to opt out and vow to stay single. Suddenly it didn’t seem such a great idea. And it was too late. The mag went to print overnight and I can’t back out.

I’m slow to get dressed and drag my white gipsy skirt up over my equally white legs and my red vest top down over my slightly sunburnt arms. I’d offer to marry the oldest and ugliest guy in the world right now, rather than face up to my public speech about what a failure I am. But hey, I’m sure some Hollywood celebrity already married him!

The tube ride to the office was far too quick. What usually takes half an hour seemed to take all of, oh, three minutes today! And I’m sure Ellie, our receptionist gave me a weird smile as she said ‘hi’ when I walked past her desk, but she did have her mouth full of muffin, so maybe I’m being Paranoia Princess. I don’t so much wish the ground would swallow me up, as to wish that I could simply melt into it and remain there – for eternity. I’ve managed to crawl to my desk, thrilled to find that I have an unopened bottle of water in my drawer from yesterday. Fabulous news, which means I don’t have to suffer ‘the kitchen’ and the water cooler small talk. I snarl at my computer as it twinkles its start-up jingle and I try to press the keys very quietly. It’s going to be all about blending in today.

“Regan!” Delaney’s voice could shatter glass. I physically cringe as she gently spins my chair around and slides her left buttock onto my desk. “You did a great job on that column. Fabulous! You pulled it off. You were meant to write this column. I want you to take over Victoria Harris’ column from now. I’m not convinced about the Relationship Rehab tag – maybe we’ll discuss that. Now you have to really write about what it’s like being a singleton in London. Come into my office at 10 and we’ll talk it through.” Rabbit-In-The-Headlights I stare at her, my brain labouring for a response, but I needn’t worry because she has more to say as she rises from my desk and smiles, revealing lip-stick smeared teeth,

“Oh, and Regan? Speed dating. Saturday night. Leicester Square. How about writing that into next week’s column? You can try them all – speed dating, internet dating – find out about them and write ‘em up! You made this promise now – to stay single – so try to keep to it eh?”

And she breezes back to her office, leaving me stunned. I catch AJ’s reflection in my computer screen and realise that she can see my crushed expression. I turn on my chair to face her,

“Hey, this should be fun!” I force through gritted teeth and a plastic smile.

“Yeah,” she whinnies, “and there was me thinking you didn’t have any choice but to stay single…”

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

Pulling Power #2

the second instalment of these chat-ups and put downs - gross or gorgeous? You decide!




or go subscribe to Sophie's channel at
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYciAe92eRw

Chapter Four

After being sharply bought back to earth by Jennifer I call Tamsin, hopeful for a slightly more sympathetic response,

“So Tam, I thought I’d call it Relationship Rehab. You know, maybe this is good – choosing to stay single means not having to worry about giving out the right ‘look’. So what if they think I’m all the things that Jennifer said? Not worrying about attracting a man means that I can relax. I’m bet there are thousands of us who have suffered from D.S.S! And as for these married guys – maybe it’s time I alerted a nation of wives…”

Tamsin laughs at me. “Go for it Sophie,” she enthuses, “most of your boyfriends have been pretty awful anyway.”

Suddenly it’s not as funny. “What? Who? Now you tell me!”

“Well, that Harry Potter for a start.”

“Harry Potter?”

“The potter. Remember I nicknamed him Harry Potter?”

“Tam, have you been drinking?”

“No. The potter, Sophie. Don’t you remember him? The clay potter. I think his real name was Jake, or something like that.”

Oh yes, I’d forgotten him. I went off him shortly after she nicknamed him Harry and we sat up one night devouring a couple of bottles of wine and joking about how awkward he was with his hands. And there I’d been, expecting some re-inaction of Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore in Ghost. Everybody remembers that scene where he’s behind her and they’re sliding their hands up and down the slippery phallic clay cock as t rotates on the spinning wheel. But Jake was nothing like that. It was as if he became another person when he wasn’t elbow deep in slimy clay. His sexual dexterity must have been an embarrassing disappointment to him? He was constantly clumsy, often knocking over drinks when we were in the pub, dropping his cutlery in restaurants or stepping in dog poo. Put it this way – he had problems finding his car keys in his jeans pocket, never mind finding my g-spot.

“And do you remember Christian!” Tamsin gushes. I have an unsettling feeling that she’s enjoying these character assassinations of my previous boyfriends, as she giggles,

“Christian! Didn’t he love himself Soph? You couldn’t even get near the mirror when you were with him.”

“Do you know what though, Tam? He was the only guy that my sister liked.”

“Sophie,” her voice dropped to a recalcitrant hum, “your sister is a woman who has a cleaner three times a week and doesn’t tell her friends. Your sister is a woman who makes the ironing lady hide in the shed so that her yummy-mummy buddies won’t see her when they come around for their coffee mornings. Of course she’d love a guy who loves himself and looks great – it simply buys in to her entire image conscious lifestyle.”

And I know that she’s right. Jennifer is so desperate to be seen dating the right guy that she’d let her friends watch her sexual shenanigans if it meant gaining their approval. Our conversation is halted as Angela Johnson comes into the toilets, stopping at the mirror to poke her fingers into the corners of her eyes and pretending not to look over her shoulder at my reflection.

“Gotta go, Tam. Talk later.” I cut off, and slide my mobile into my trouser pocket.

“Hiding in the toilets, Sophie?” AJ’s voice is fake and light.

“Not at all, Angela. Why would I be hiding?”

“Oh, no reason. Just that Delaney’s been looking for you for the last fifteen minutes…”

I feel the colour drain from my face and rush for the door, not failing to notice AJ’s smirk as I leave the door swinging behind me. In my rush I bump straight into Maria Delaney.

“Regan, you started that column yet? You’ve been missing all morning.”

“I’m right onto it De… I mean, Maria.”

“Great,” she clapped her hands together and smiled, “Can’t wait to read it.”

*

Five hours later I’m still stuck at my desk, chewing the end of my pen as I stare at the virtually blank screen before me. It’s not so much a lack of what to write, more how to write it. Jen’s warnings about being a dried up spinster rattle through my brain and I can’t focus on how to start this tirade of why I’ve decided to stay single. And then it dawns on me to kick off with Jennifer’s words, and so I begin,

“It’s a tough decision, to choose to stay single. Especially when you have a sister who dates only in elite circles and has men falling at her feet, but when you’ve heard every excuse, isn’t it time to make some decisions?....”

The more I think about staying single, the more I ‘Google’ Staying Single, the more I realise the potential benefits. Hell, it’s virtually a career choice! I can focus one hundred percent on my writing, I’m free for a spontaneous weekend away or night out without having to ask for permission or explain myself, I don’t need to cook if I don’t want to and I need never worry about considering somebody else! I can grow my leg hair to catastrophic lengths if I so wish and can eat noodles on a daily basis – from the bowl and in bed! Of course, it’s great for a woman to feel toned and buff, waxed and St Tropez’d, knowing that a guy will find you stunning – but it’s not happening anyway, why not throw in the towel and be yourself. I spend the rest of the afternoon, my fingers rattle over the keyboard with renewed enthusiasm and I can see that it’s killing ‘AJ’ – her gnarled reflection in my computer screen as she tries to crane her neck to the side and see what’s keeping me so busy. I continue to pour out my highs and lows, expectations and disappointments in the dating game. By the time I finish at 5.30 I have enough material for a months worth of column inches. Delaney will be delighted.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Five

Chapter Three

I wake up only four-and-a-half hours later at 6.15am looking like a bloodhound. My eyes, pickled onions in their sockets, are unsympathetic as they look back at me from the bathroom mirror.

"OK," I nod in agreement to them, "I know. I've mourned so many dead relationships it's a miracle that I'm not permanently dressed head-to-toe in black. But things are changing around here."

After a quick shower, I drip water whilst walking back into the bedroom, dragging my Joseph linen trousers from my wicker chair of a wardrobe, and lay them on the bed along with my feel-good lemon blouse. Plugging in the GHD's I head for the kitchen, and my first coffee of the day. The Pussy Cat Dolls show off from the radio, teasing all the married men and boyfriends with their 'doncha wish your girlfriend was hot like me' I switch it off in disgust. I'm looking forward to the liberating option of choosing to stay single. I'm going to be a confident man-free zone and not a downtrodden needy gtb (girlfriend-to-be)!

*

Hopping onto the tube at Belsize Park, I have a renewed faith in myself. With the absence of married men and unsuitable dates to distract me, nothing carries connotations anymore. That cute guy at the ticket office who smiled at me? He might as well have been my granddad. And that handsome dark man wearing the expensive suit who offered me his seat? I just took it with a 'thank you' and a polite smile. This is refreshing, and I feel inspired.

I arrive at the Woman to Woman offices five minutes late and Delaney is already on the warpath. She's written, in huge capital letters in black marker pen, the word 'TIME?' on a sheet of A4 and has propped it against my computer screen for everyone to see. I roll my eyes and catch Angela Johnson grinning wickedly from her desk - well I think she's grinning. Her lips are pursed together as tight as a cats arse - but it's the best attempt at a smile that I've ever seen from her! Everything points to it being the start of a dificult day and I decide that a long mug of camomile tea is the first task. Giles, the good-looking, newly-wed and overly-sensible Technology journalist is already in the small galley kitchen, making himself a decaf with skimmed milk. We mumble a quick 'hi' to each other when Steve, our flirty photographer comes bowling in.

"Hey, Sophie!" And how's my beautiful assistant features writer this morning then?" And before I can reply he grabs my shoulders and spins me around to face him, "Hmmm, lovely top. And yellow really suits you. You're a cracker you know, Sophie?" It's hard to smile and look appreciative whilst also professional. So I don't.

"Excuse me, Steve," I deadpan, "my teabag needs removing."

He laughs at me, slapping my bum as himself and Giles leave me in the kitchen alone. I'm infuriated at the old-boys-network mentality and, thankful that I'm alone in the kitchen, begin to rang, squeezing my teabag against the side of the mug with the back of my spoon, frantically.

"Who the hell do these guys think they are? I'm fucking sick, sick, sick of all of them. These married men, these 'somebody-elses-guys' and ignorant ugly personalitites thinking that they're god's gift! Honestly, I don't know how they get away with it, but I swear, if another creep ever slaps my arse like that again, I'll knock his frigging head off! That's bloody well it. No more men. Not for a year. I don't care who they are, how good loking they are, how loaded, funny, cute, kind of whatever the fuck else they are. No more men. I'm staying single for the year. And that's a bloody promise!"

I scoop the teabag with a spoon and fire it across the room, watching it splat against the wall above the bin, and then drop straight into the gaping open lid. I jump at the sound of very slow clapping and Delaney's gravelly voice slices the air like cheese wire,

"Well, fuck me, Sophie Regan. That was the most passionate stream of words that's come out of you since you started here. Iwant 1500 words.

On staying single.

By tonight.

You just got yourself a column."

*

"No! Jennifer! I'm bloody serious!" I hiss into my mobile in the ladies toilets. "She heard everything I said and now wants me to write a column about it. I'm taking over Victoria Harris' column whilst she's off in rehab. No! I agree, this is not good!"

My sister is offhand the other end of the phone. It doesn't help that she's pushing her shopping trolley around a supermarket somewhere in South Dublin and our conversation is peppered with the 'ping pong' of announcements of the price of spuds and fresh bread. She is disgusted that I've agreed to do this,

"Sophie, Jesus! You have to simply say no! I know it's not a word that you're overly familiar with, but for Christ's sake! You do realise that publicising your, ahh, your, your..., em, inadequacy isn't going to help you find a decent man."

"My inadequacy!"

"Oh, you know what I mean. Don't split hairs. Listen," I hear the muffle in her voice as she props her mobile under her chin while she loads the conveyor belt with items,

"That's going to be the death toll for any future relationships Sophie. You can forget any male attention now. You'll be portrayed as a dried up spinster. No man's going to go near you now. You do realise that. Babe, basically, you're fucked!"

And I have to agree with her. It's one thing teling my friends and family about my desperation in the dating stakes, but to make it public for the entire country to see is another thing. Damn Victoria Harris and her over-powdering of her nose! Can't I go into rehab - relationship rehab? It'd be great, to put myself into a sanctuary where there's no temptation and just nurturing and pampering! Hey, maybe that's what I'm doing. OK - so I could call the column Relationship Rehab - if I decide to do it....

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Pulling Power #1

The first of a series of mini documentaries. Watch here or go to sophie's page at www.youtube.com - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s1sO18r9sTc

Sophie's Calendar

New chapters - loaded here daily or sent direct to your inbox daily - email Sophie if you'd like this

Podcasts - listen to a podcast of the weeks story - freshly uploaded every Sunday (just perfect for listening to on your iPod on the way to work Monday)

Pulling Power - mini documentaries about chat up lines and dumping lines freshly loaded twice weekly - check the links on the blog every Monday and Thursday (I'm testing these out to stream from YouTube, but would like to see how that works - might have to change it)

Second Life - meet Sophie in Second Life every Wednesday night at 9pm. Details of venue to follow.... (to commence wed 2 may)

Dilemma? - look for the alerts to go to www.sophiedilemma.com to watch a video of a scenario that Sophie finds herself in - and then YOU, the reader, will forecast what she decides to do.

Disastrous Dates

We've all had them. Those horrendous moments - those few hours that pass like an eternity, or the cringe-worthy outfit/man/breath that turn you green as you nip to the loo and text your friend, begging her to ring you with an 'emergency'.

So here's where they're going to feature. I'll kick off with one of my disastrous dates and then leave it open for you to feel free to add your own.

Wonder how many we'll conjure up, between us?

x

Chat up lines #1

5 witty chat up lines

- Hi, I'm a meteorologist, and I've been admiring your warm front.

- I'm like quick-drying cement; after I've been laid it doesn't take me long to get hard.

- Hi, I'm here on a computer date. But the computer hasn't shown up.

- Hi, I'm from Wonderbra. We're conducting free spot-checks to make sure our customers are wearing the right size bra. Just breathe in, and then relax, breathe out slowly once my hands are in place....

- Have you got any Irish in you? Would you like some???


OK - so pretty cheesy but I can confess to having had 3 of these lines used on me. Yes, I know they're hideous - but would they work for you? HAVE they worked for you? I suppose that would depend on who was saying it to you - Shane McGowan wouldn't have the same impact as, say, Brad Pitt - but generally, given your average guy - would these make you giggle or puke?

DJ dumps more unsuspecting victims - live on air

Adam, Amy and Ben join Angie's league of ex-girl/boyfriends humiliatingly dumped, live on air as part of Danny Dumps radio show for Galaxy Yorkshire.

Once again - lots of debate and disupte surrounding these.

Click here to listen in - and voice YOUR opinion!

Dump your partner on the radio

Lots of online chat about the radio show that dumps your partner for you!

Talk about delegation!

See some comments here
http://blog.tenderhooligan.com/2007/01/18/shameful-humiliation/#comment-1589

and here

http://www.b3ta.com/links/You_re_Dumped

Chapter Two

It’s dark when I get home - both in my head and in my flat. It doesn’t get any easier, coming home to an unlived-in living space, nothing different from when I left it nearly twelve hours earlier. The curtains still open, my washing still pressed and wet against the porthole window of the washing machine. It’s been a disgusting day – not helped by Danny-the-chav-Mullins and his ‘cracking bird’ line, nor helped by the fact that Maria Delaney wouldn’t give me an inch of independence with the ‘Women Who Surrender Their Lives For Their Pets’ piece; and I’ve still brought it home to re-edit it. Of course, Angela Johnson loved watching the events unfold through her slitted eyes. It was all made worse by the fact that the Girl About Town columnist, Victoria Harris, has been signed off-sick for 2 months. It seems she’s been ‘about town’ a little too much - checked into rehab for coke and alcohol addiction, is the rumour. Mind you, working for Delaney would drive anybody to drugs and drink!

I kick off my shoes in the kitchen and root through the cupboards for something resembling dinner, but I’m too tired and sad to bother. A shiny packet of noodles hits the pan of boiling water for 3 minutes and, hey presto, another meal for one! As I walk into my lounge I can’t help but think of Danny and what a joke he really was. Thank god I didn’t sleep with him – that would have made things even worse! Then I remember the picture messages that he’d text to me last week and how they were rather appealing. Is a chav who isn’t wearing ANY clothes still a chav? As I scroll through the messages I find the photos that he’d sent of himself in the shower and feel a slight twinge of regret somewhere between my pelvis and my ribcage. At least, I think it’s regret – it might be hunger. He looked quite good in the nude – the white foam sliding down his pallid belly and the distinctively attractive soapy bulge hidden beneath the suds that gathered between his legs…...

My ansaphone is flashing silently in the corner of the room, like a mute child wanting attention and I’m ashamed to say that it rushes through my mind that it might be him, having second thoughts and begging to take me to The Ivy tonight as apology. I press the flashing green button and hear my mother’s voice, loaded with her new, fake American accent,

“Hey, baby? It’s me, baby. Your mother! Honey? You just gotta get over here soon – it’s simply loaded with gorgeous men. Much sexier than those pasty patsies in the UK. So, babeeee, when ya comin?”

She’d never called England ‘the UK’, until she moved to L.A. 2 years ago with her new partner. But then again, in the last 2 years my mother has adopted many new characteristics – a new accent, tanorexia, fake nails, fake hair colour, a plethora of new ‘friends’. No, I’m insane to even think that Danny will be having second thoughts. It’s only after looking at those damned shower pictures that’s made me like the idea of him again. I know that, deep down, I’m simply suffering with D.S.S. - Dumpee-Sickstomach-Syndrome- also known as being emotionally unemployed.

I don’t bother with the telly and take my bowl of noodles to bed with me – nothing like snuggling up against a cold ceramic bowl to make you feel lonely between the sheets. I strip down to my knickers and climb between the stark duvet, balancing the noodles on my knees as I twist back and struggle to plump the pillows behind me. In a way it’s completely self-indulgent eating noodles alone. It’s slovenly and hedonistic to dangle the noodles from a fork, a full arm-stretch over your head, and direct them down into your new-born-chick open mouth. My mobile bleeps and I suck in a stray noodle quickly before reaching down to my bag and pulling it out. 3 new messages – one from Jennifer and 2 from my friend Tamsin. But I’m not going to talk to them tonight. I’ve still got to write up the piece about ‘How Body Language Affects Flirting’ and I can’t be bothered to explain how another relationship has failed.

*

By 11.45pm I’m still wide awake. Despite laying here, in the dark, with my eyes closed, sleep isn’t coming. Instead I have a couple of small movies playing out inside my eyelids, and they’re not very entertaining. My Crap Efforts At Dating has just finished and now How I Attract a Legion of Married Men began about 3 minutes ago. It’s giving me an appetite for popcorn, and it’s extremely uncomfortable viewing, watching the last six months concurrently makes me realise how dire it’s all become.

Married men. In a way, they guarantee great sex – they’re experienced and road-tested, probably bored with their ‘twice-a-week’ and desperate to prove to themselves that they’ve still got ‘it’. I’ll never forget the slick lines of Adam, (who I didn’t know was married until after he’d shagged me senseless. For 2 months!) “Have you got Star Wars pants on babe? Cos your arse is out of this world!” His technique was mind-blowing and left me flushed and disorientated for 2 days. He was a mortgage advisor and would leave messages on my mobile and house phone, his fake-posh voice saying, “Hello madam. I am a mortgage advisor; do you want to see the benefits of a large endowment? I’ll be round at nine – I want your knickers off ready!”

He really wooed me and I fell for him in a big way. He was smart and stylish, funny and clever and a real metrosexual. He couldn’t walk past a Banana Republic shop without buying something, he owned five pairs of sunglasses – all of which made him look like David Beckham in the Police sunglasses ad, he made the perfect Sunday roast and only ever wore Calvin Klein boxers. He was perfect. And then I discovered that he was married.

There was Pete – the really nice guy with severe acne scars. It was a problem eating with him – his skin was like cottage cheese with a fork drawn through it and his idea of eating-out led straight to McDonalds. Then the gorgeous James. Tamsin had said from the start that he’d be a hard dog to keep on the porch – and she’d been right. I’d caught him on the steps to Oxford Circus tube station kissing another woman when he thought I’d gone to Barcelona for the weekend with the girls. He hadn’t figured that I’d forgotten to update my expired passport and only realise at the last minute. The look on his face when I tapped him on the shoulder, mid tonsil-massage,

“Sophie!” his eyes bulged with horror.

The smack around the face didn’t make me feel half as good as I’d hoped.

And then there’d been the prospective ‘great date’ who wilted as he became progressively drunk. I drove him home and when he invited me in, I accepted - against my better judgement, but it was more to make sure that he got home, rather than a preamble to anything else. He disappeared immediately after opening the front door and so I stood, puzzled, in his dark hallway. “Go through to the lounge!” he yelled, an excited urgency to his muffled voice which came from another room somewhere. I stood in the doorway and he reappeared, leaping onto the sofa in grey y-fronts and yellow t-shirt. Like an excitable puppy he threw something across the room, “Catch!” he yelled. So I did. And the split second that I clutched the tumbling bumper box of 18 condoms, his fiancée returned home! I turned to her, both of us equally stunned, and handed her the box as I said, “poor you,” and made for the front door – quickly!

The clock in my bedroom flashes an ominous 12.23am as my mind continues to race with these moments of horror as I then remember Jonny - the body builder who could only get turned on at the thrill of getting caught 'at it'. He fancied himself as a Schwarzenegger type and shaved more than just his face. He also exfoliated and moisturized, religiously removing every hair from his body from the ears down. I didn’t particularly like the bald body look, especially when his chest hair began to grow back – it was hedgehog stubbly and scratched my boobs to shreds! He had to go. Along with Ronny – who was addicted to internet porn – his computer was virtually humming with subscriber-only websites and downloads.

*

Chapter Three

I wake up only four-and-a-half hours later at 6.15am looking like a bloodhound…..

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter One

For some inane reason I don’t seem to be able to remain with a guy for long. It’s either me – getting bored with him, or them, dumping me.

Either way it’s just not working.

It was the same before I moved to London. OK, so compared to places like Russia or Australia, Dublin is a village, but somehow it was getting to the point where all my exes knew each other. Definitely time to move on, and when I was offered the opportunity as features assistant on Woman to Woman magazine I wasn’t about to refuse. So here I am, sitting at my desk and having an all too familiar conversation with my sister Jennifer.

Dater-of-Dublin’s-elite Jennifer.

I-Know-How-To-Handle-Men Jennifer.

Nothing like me.

My voice is pleading, desperate for Jennifer and her head-screwed-on approach to agree with my flimsy reasoning.

“Danny Mullins is a complete chav!”

“Valid point Sophie,” I can imagine her nodding in agreement, knowing all too well the punch-line that’s coming, “but not a good enough reason to break his heart.”

“Break his heart? We’ve only been on four dates. It’s no good – he has to go. He buys all his clothes on the market.”

“Bad. Very bad. But still not a valid reason to dump him. You do know that ‘handsome’ is not the sole criteria, don’t you Soph?”

“Of course I do!” I hiss into the mouthpiece. My editor, Maria Delaney is on the warpath today and it’s more than my life’s worth to let her catch me on a personal call.” But it isn’t just that, Jen. His breath smells.”

“Jesus! Well that’s inexcusable! Sophie Regan, what the hell are you waiting for?”

“I know.” At last I could relax, content that I had finally made my

voice-of-reason sister see sense. “I’ll tell him tonight.”

My relief is short-lived though, as Maria Delaney’s voice calls out, a shrill ricochet slicing through the air of the Woman to Woman offices and I slam down my phone in the knee-jerk reaction that I’d finely honed over the last few months since I’d been appointed as Features Assistant.

“Sophie? Got a few minutes please? I need an update on the ‘Women Who Surrender Their Lives For Their Pets’ piece.”

“OK, OK,” muttering under my breath I grapple for the relevant papers on my desk, accidentally knocking the huge elastic band ball that I’d been working on for the last few weeks, down onto the floor. I watch it roll, as if in slow-motion, across the nylon carpet, stopping beside the wicked-
witch-of-the-west-stuck-under-the-shed feet of Angela Johnson as she sits, prim at her desk.

“Bugger!” I hiss to myself, knowing without doubt ‘AJ’s’ lowly opinion of my writing.

“Sophie!” Maria Delaney squeaks once again from her Editor’s office, “Are you coming or not?”

“Coming!” I say in a businesslike manner as I grab a handful of papers, deciding to sort them into something resembling an order on my short journey from desk to Maria’s office. As I break into a trot, my synthetic shoes creating sparks on the carpet, I look back at my phone as it flashes and blasts out the “I need a hero” ringtone from my bag. As desperate as I am to nip back and check who’s calling, I know it’s more than my life is worth to upset the boss. The caller will have to wait.

*

“And so, em, Sophie. Well, it’s, em, it’s Danny. Er, I really wanted to tell you this to your face, but, well, as I’ve got your voice-mail. It’s like this Sophie. You’re a really nice girl and all that, but, well. It’s not you babe – it’s me. I can’t commit just to the one woman, you know? I’m too young for all that. And you know babe? As for the word ‘monogamous’? Surely babe, it's no coincidence that it sounds so like 'monotonous'! So, please don’t be down babe. Like I said, it’s really not you, you’re a cracking bird. It’s just me. Sorry Sophie. Bye.”

*

“Who the hell does he think he is!” I’m yelling down my mobile at Jennifer, blatantly ignoring the pinstripes at Paddington station who are surreptitiously trying to appear as if they’re not listening to my conversation. “A cracking bird? A bloody cracking bird! I’ll crack his bloody head if I ever set eyes on him again?”

Jennifer was trying to placate me.

Unsuccessfully.

“Sophie, try and calm down. It’s the end result that’s important. You didn’t want to see him again. You wanted to call it off, and now it is.

Called off.”

“No!!” I’m shouting. I realise that I’m shouting, but I can’t stop. “That’s the whole point. I wanted to call it off. And he got in there before me! That bloody Burberry-capped chav with the smelly breath actually had the nerve to tell me ‘not to be down’! I bet he thought all his birthdays had come at once when I agreed to go out with him anyway!”

“Sophie, try to calm down. People must be looking.”

“People?” deranged now, I hold out my mobile to the crowd of dolly pegs who are suddenly overly interested in the huge London Transport poster advertising the Philosophy Course. “No! People aren’t looking! People are too busy trying not to laugh at the idiot who couldn’t see it coming! That’s it Jennifer! No more men! Never, no more!”

“But Sophie…”

Too late. The train pulls in and I cut her off. Seriously. No more men.

And if you only knew the horrendous experiences I’ve had in the last 6 months, you’d be crowning me ‘queen of the singles’ for making such a fabulous decision.

Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five