Date: 13 January 2015

Location: waiting for Gurkha’s Cafe to deliver me an obscene volume of Nepalese food.

On New Year’s Day, as I nursed the obligatory hangover, nesting in my couch with bubbly water, nacho cheese Mission corn chips, Babybel cheeses and mini blocks of cheddar cheese all within easy reach (when I’m hungover, I inexplicably lunge for the dairy, like a Bachelorette for a red rose), my low serotonin levels forced me to take a hard look at my decisions — between episodes of Sex & The City.

Picture this: it’s New Year’s Eve. You arrive at a rooftop party thrown at the swanky bachelor pad of a young man upon whom you have a wee crush. It’s 90% men in their thirties. Patrón XO Cafe is the drink of choice. Tell me, is this or is this not shooting fish in a barrel?

Come New Year’s Day, I forced myself to explain to myself why, in the aforementioned situation, any sane, single, crushing young woman would spend the bulk of the evening giggling with girlfriends and manning Spotify? Tell me.

Part of the reason was Joey. She is in town for the European winter, a self-described ‘Glamazon’, charismatic as hell and one heck of a shameless flirt. If she was competing in The Bachelor, she’d steal the unsuspecting bastard’s heart then lead the girls in rebellion against him, ultimately resulting in him being cast out of the mansion and her signing her own reality TV series. On New Year’s Eve, despite basically knowing no one, she charmed and wooed and before long had a line of boys fawning over her — including, of course, Forbes. I don’t think she did this on purpose. I certainly hope not, as she was fully aware of how I felt and why we were at that particular party.

Another part of the reason was sheer laziness. Another, that sheer mortal fear of rejection we’ve discussed at length before.

So New Year’s Day, in something much like self-flaggellation, I did all sorts of nasty tasks: finalised and sent my ‘break up’ letter to the recruiter and law firm so that I could accept the other job, set about Visa application no. 2, drank a giant mug of grassy green juice, sorted my accessories into take/store/donate piles. Turns out, I’m a beanie hoarder. Huh.

Went to bed early.

And then, just a few days later, materialing as if she’d been sent by the wave of a Disney magic wand, there she was: my Tinderfairy Godmother.

Picture this: Planeteer’s birthday drinks, drinkings Coors in the Sunday sunshine, in a New Orleans throwback at Le Bon Ton. Happy couples abound. Onesuch is The Planeteer’s former fling and his new partner, the TFGM. She quickly revealed that they’d met on Tinder. It was impossible not to be inspired by this girl. We chatted dating and London life and dating life in London and I soon found myself with a renewed zeal for all things romantic. As I got up to go she gave me a quick hug and remided me that there would be hard times in London and not to be discouraged. Or, in her words, ‘put on your big girl knickers and pull yourself together.’ Wise fairy words to live by.

Spurred on my encounter with the TFGM I responded to an online dating message I’d been ignoring from a cute, polite, intelligent investment banker. I let him know that I was moving to London and so not dating but that he was welcome to be my ‘practise date’ for London if he wished. I don’t know what possessed me. Poor dude.

Love

Alex

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