So I left the hospital, armed with a large quantity of co-dydramol and with my arm in a cast and a sling. Jamie kindly drove us all home and we picked up a takeaway on the way. My left arm had a baptism of fire whilst it tried to learn to do all the things that my right arm had taken care of all my life. It was an interesting process . . . I’ve attended so many courses where I’ve been asked to write my name with my left hand (it’s becoming pointless as I’m getting good at it) and whereas it’s second nature with one’s dominant hand, it’s an entirely different process with the other. You have to think about what you’re doing, as your hand has no memory – so to speak – of carrying out the activity. This was my experience with a useless right arm. I was fortunate, though, to have my children home for the summer, and along with my left arm, they seriously stepped up.

The day of the operation arrived and that was one long day. My sister kindly delivered me to Haywards Heath, accompanied by my children and little did we know that we would spend several hours in a waiting room, watching daytime TV with no access to a remote control. Eventually, they gave me a nerve block, which is one of the most surreal experiences ever . . . I had no idea how heavy my arm was until then! My arm was numb, impossible to move and not like my arm at all. It was like some dead appendage hanging from my collarbone. So anyway, the op began and I was surprised to feel the knife. Apparently this happens sometimes . . . some know-alls have announced to me that ‘everyone feels something’ when you have a nerve block but this was pain. Enough to make me cry so they gave me a choice: a general anaesthetic or pure oxygen. I opted for the latter; although a nurse friend has informed me that it must have been something else that I can’t remember, as they don’t just dish out pure oxygen. Unless you’re Michael Jackson I guess. But then he probably didn’t get it from an NHS hospital. Anyway, whatever it was, it was rather lovely. They told me it wouldn’t take the pain away but I would stop caring. They didn’t tell me it would make me talk like a runaway train to the poor doctor who sat next to me for the duration, but there we are.

I had thought, up until that day, that the pain of my wrist snapping was possibly the most pain that I could withstand without just dropping dead from it. I wonder what they say to men in this instance, but when you’re a woman who’s experienced childbirth, medical professionals use that experience as a yardstick for measuring your pain. When the paramedic who rescued me asked, ‘On a scale of 1-10, with childbirth as 10, what . . .’ without hesitating I replied, ’11!’ before he’d had a chance to finish the question. So when the nerve block started to wear off that night, despite having had a nightcap of ibuprofen and co-codamol, I was shocked that my pain threshold could actually rise to 12. My poor children were kept awake by my groans of pain and when dawn broke at around 5am, seeing as they had sat with me for half the night and had lost all hope of returning to sleep, they made me some scrambled egg on toast, the taste of which I can almost taste now, it was so appreciated. I had barely eaten the previous day, due to the op so I was pretty hungry. I had borrowed a bread-maker for the summer and amazingly, I could still manage to use it one-handed. And what with the home-laid eggs from my funny chickens, it was no ordinary scrambled egg on toast.

I had to wear a splint and a sling still, as although I had a metal plate inside my wrist to hold the two halves together, it was still broken and needed to heal. I say ‘plate’ but actually, having seen the X-ray, it kind of resembled a brush . . ? But anyway, as one does, I put my faith in the medical profession and assumed that this was what a plate looked like.

With the exception of a few toes, which, frankly, don’t count, a broken bone was new territory for me. I gazed at my wrist and sobbed into the puddle. Where there should have been a straight line, there was something resembling two sides of a triangle. I sobbed some more, partly from intense pain and partly from sheer self-pity, as I was just days into the long, luscious, summer break and I’d broken a part of myself. And also because my wrist looked grotesque, to be honest and I realised that I had never fully appreciated how straight my wrist was before I snapped it in two.

I needed help, but since the drop in temperature, it had become eerily quiet down on the Undercliff. I lay there, holding my wrist, feeling as if I had to hold it together, for a few minutes until I saw a woman pushing a pram. I was by the wall and she was by the cliff, so I had to call quite loudly to attract her attention. I was stifling sobs, still, but was clearly calling her to come over and help me. She stopped and stared for a few seconds . . . she was drinking a soft drink from a paper cup with a straw and looked quite young. I called her a few times before she decided to come over – she seemed unsure about the whole situation and I struggled to figure out what her concerns were. But she came over and helped and for that I was grateful. I explained my predicament and she called for an ambulance. She passed the phone to me when the telephonist requested it and while I spoke, another lady came to help who happened to be a trained nurse and was pushing a pram too. The telephonist was unsympathetic. I was treated to patronising comments like ‘I understand that you THINK you may have broken your wrist,’ and uncaring comments like ‘I think you can make your own way to A&E,’ so I abandoned the call. A cyclist came to offer what assistance she could and it was decided, since she had wheels, that she could go to the café and alert my daughter to the situation. I was a 10-15 minute walk away from the café, so I decided to get up and retrace my steps to the café at least, where Rhiannon was and take it from there.

A chap in a mobility scooter had joined us too, so the four of us – well, six including the babes – set off slowly to the café. Somebody must have taken control of the dog, but I forget who. The trained nurse was concerned I might pass out and insisted on supporting me. I didn’t feel like passing out, but her support was appreciated. I held onto my wrecked wrist because it seemed to ease the pain slightly, yet every step seemed to compound the agony. The young mum chatted and kept everyone jolly, as did the chap in the mobility scooter who offered me a ride. I felt like I was in one of those adventure movies; the sort that involve a journey and an unlikely mix of people end up journeying together.

This particular journey seemed to last an eternity, but at some point I spotted Rhiannon plus boyfriend walking briskly towards this curious crowd. We were close to the café so I said my thank-yous and farewells to my rescuers and headed up to the café. It happened that my beautiful Greek friend ran the café and he took charge. That is, after recovering from nearly passing out at the sight of my wrist with its bizarre, new shape. He called for an ambulance and had better luck than me, then brought me Fanta and chocolate. This is what friends are for.

A paramedic arrived with a welcome, shiny canister of Entonox. This was so different from the treatment I received from the cold-hearted telephonist. He smiled, said ‘hey – you must be Lisa,’ and then said, ‘I’ll take some details from you after you’ve had a few minutes alone with the gas and air’. This was a nice man. I said – no, I think I sobbed – ‘thank-you’, then got spaced out on oxygen and nitrous oxide.

He had a car, rather than an ambulance and I sat in the front seat with the canister on the floor. Rhiannon sat in the back (her boyfriend having offered, very kindly, to take Rusty home for me) and chatted to The Nice Man while I continued to inhale copious amounts of pain relief. I remember travelling down the hill from Rottingdean to the roundabout at Ovingdean . . . again . . . and again . . . and again . . . Evidently, I’d had way too much laughing gas but as the alternative was intense pain, I stuck with feeling high and experiencing repeated journeys, that weren’t happening, on a loop.

On arrival at the hospital, The Nice Man abandoned me, presumably, to rescue other people and took the canister. I must have looked particularly forlorn, because he stopped, unscrewed the breathing tube, handed it to me and told me to ask for another canister to go with the tube. During the looong wait in A&E I did this several times but all to no avail. No-one would give me another canister, even though I actually started flagging down people in the corridor that looked like they might be employed, in some capacity, by the hospital, to beg for one, proffering the tube, as if it were proof of my entitlement to a canister.

But eventually, two doctors manipulated my wrist, by pulling it in opposite directions. Because the big bone had completely snapped in two, the two halves were at an angle with each other and they needed to pull them apart and push them down so that they were at least in the right place and pretending not to have parted company. Then they plastered my wrist and sent me off to X-ray, where it transpired that the two halves were not in the right place. So the cast was removed and they did it all over again, keeping my spirits up by teasing me about my hot-pants. I explained that I hadn’t planned on going to hospital, that it was dog-walking attire, but they laughed and said that I was obviously on a man-hunt. If I hadn’t been so high on laughing gas, I would have argued, but I just laughed, because that’s what laughing gas does to you, unless you’re in the throes of childbirth, because contractions and laughter really don’t go together.

By this time, Rhiannon had contacted her brother and so I had the very welcome company of my two children and Rhiannon’s boyfriend as he had deposited a confused Rusty home and popped into the hospital to join in with The Broken Wrist Party. They were all rather entertaining, particularly whilst awaiting the second manipulation, when one of them realised that we were alone with the laughing gas and suddenly the plastering room became full of the laughter of four people. I have a vague recollection of one of them pretending that the plastering room was actually the set of Star Trek . . . potent stuff, that gas and air. If we hadn’t all been so happy and carefree, we would have been embarrassed when Rhiannon’s boyfriend was actually caught inhaling Entonox when one of the doctors burst into the room, unexpectedly.

But anyway, to my relief, the second manipulation was successful and I remarked that I was relieved I wouldn’t have to have surgery.

‘Oh no!’ the doctor laughed, in reply, ‘You still have to have surgery! We were just getting you ready for surgery! You’re going to have a plate put in, in five days.’

I had discovered a whole new world of live music in town. Original Blues Guy played in a different pub every night from Sunday-Thursday and I was enjoying trailing round the eclectic mix of pubs he frequented for Open Mic nights. There was some overlap with musicians; some faces became familiar and I was enjoying the uncertainty of every evening’s entertainment. Some pubs were jazzy, some folky . . . sometimes covers dominated the evening and at other times it was mostly home-spun music. Some musicians were ridiculously talented while others were clearly trilling and strumming away for the sheer love of it, regardless of their talent or, in some cases, dare I say it – lack of it. There wasn’t much of the latter, to be fair and it didn’t matter because no-one played for long and if they were enjoying themselves then there was no need to judge.

After a while, it became clear that this was a whole new world of which I had become a part, even if I was on the side-lines, as a spectator. It reminded me of the world of theatre, of which I had been a part for most of my life. It is as if each city has several dimensions and you can only enter a new one by way of a very gradual process. And once within that new dimension, you become a part of the fabric of it and you can only leave as gradually as you entered. I was still – just about – a part of the world of theatre, but I was losing my hold on it. I hadn’t trodden the boards for two or three years and was keen to become a part of that world once more. Everyone told me I should, so that was one of my plans for the summer. Find a suitable, forthcoming production and audition for it.

But meanwhile, I was excited by the prospect of Original Blues Guy teaching me how to play the guitar. He was an artist too and had invited me up to London to go to an art exhibition on the same day he had a gig in Pimlico. His constant pestering for a relationship was concerning me, though. Was I leading him on? I didn’t think so; I made it clear I wasn’t interested but I enjoyed his company. He seemed to have a complicated life – I felt I wasn’t hearing the whole story about his relationship status, which was off-putting.

I wasn’t on Tinder at all, since that last fateful Tinder date. Meeting Toby in a place I liked, doing something I liked, was far more fulfilling than starting a relationship as a 2D image on a screen. So I’d deactivated my account and deleted the app. Tinder had served a purpose; it softened the blow of rejection and abandonment, but that was all I had ever needed it for. If you’re keen for a relationship and going out and about hasn’t worked, then it’s a good thing. But I wasn’t keen for a relationship and I hadn’t given ‘going out and about’ a go. When I say I wasn’t keen for a relationship, I mean that I was happy being single until I randomly met someone, again, in a place I liked, doing something I liked. I figured that I would just as likely meet my match in those circumstances as in a dating app. And until then, I was enjoying the benefits of being single.

The children were home from uni so I had cut back on the social life and was enjoying their company. I’d put the house on the market too, so I knew that summer would be busy with viewings, both of my house and potential homes for us. On this particular day, there was a calm after the storm. There had been rough seas the day before but the wind had calmed down as the sun came up and late morning was making promises of a warmer afternoon. My son was with friends in town and my daughter’s boyfriend had stayed over. As I left to walk the dog, they left for a late breakfast and so we strolled together, until we reached the cliff-top café where they would soon abandon their breakfast . . .

‘Why don’t you join us for breakfast?’ invited Rhiannon.

I turned her down, on the grounds that I’d had breakfast and wasn’t that hungry. I would regret that decision later.

I was dressed only for walking the dog, in hot-pants, a skimpy top, an over-sized floppy sunhat and with my trademark rucksack slung over my shoulder. I was enjoying the walk, but was preoccupied. I would be moving house for the second time in a year which, although my choice, seemed a daunting task. I kept reminding myself that I needed to make a doctor’s appointment, as I had found another lump in a different place. Well, it was more of a wedge, really and was painful. On the one hand I wasn’t as worried as before, as the last one was harmless, but on the other hand, I was more worried, because it was very different. I hadn’t told anyone, because I felt I’d used up my sympathy points with my friends and family. And lastly, I was allowing myself a rare moment of wallowing just a little in melancholy. As the Undercliff was pretty deserted, I started to sing Regina Spektor’s ‘How’, quietly, to myself. Pathetically, I had been playing it last thing every night ever since stumbling across her on Spotify one night when I was blubbing in bed. I had been searching for another artiste whose name began with ‘R’ and found her instead. ‘How’ could have been written for me, at the time, as it captured my feelings entirely. Like many of her songs, I found it particularly evocative and as I was trying out songs I could possibly learn to play on a keyboard, should the guitar lessons not materialise, I had learnt it from start to finish.

The temperature had dropped; early afternoon had not kept late morning’s promise of warmth. I stopped to take in the sight and sound of the waves crashing against the wall of the beach, as the cool air had started to whip the sea up into a bit of a frenzy. I took a break from ‘How’ and stole a few images of the sea-spray with my iPhone.

I resumed my walk and my singing, staying close to the low wall so that I could see, hear and even taste the sea, as the clouds darkened and what was once a gentle lapping, become a low rumble on the beach. There were puddles of sea-water, from waves that had managed to scale the wall and hurl themselves onto the Undercliff and I thought nothing of stepping in them, as I was wearing plimsolls which were battered and didn’t matter. But one such wave must have splashed onto a clod of chalk, from the cliff, as when I set foot on one such puddle, my heel slid forward as if I was stepping onto an ice rink. My whole being lifted into the air and it was as if time stopped while I hovered, because I was there for long enough to dread the journey back down. I had been thrown into the air with such force that I knew I would not emerge from this unscathed. I came crashing back down into the seemingly innocent puddle and was only too aware that my wrist was the casualty . . .

The end of term was nigh and already the summer was looking busy. After lengthy and at times, emotional discussions with the children, I had decided to make a fresh start in a new house, so I would be buying and selling a house (I hoped) over the break. I was looking forward to seeing the children of course and I was hopeful that the weather would be kind, so that I could enjoy some long, country walks with the dog, maybe the occasional bike-ride and perhaps do a bit more horse-riding, as (soon-to-be-ex) hubby had given me some riding gear for my last birthday with him, so that I could revive an old hobby.
First day of the summer holiday and I was greeted by a waft of tropical heat when I opened the back door, armed with coffee, toast made with bread from my newly-borrowed bread-maker and my iPad, gently serenading me with Rhiannon Giddens’ elegant, old-timey vibe. Rusty was at my heels and to my surprise, I heard the gruff sounds of dogs barking. My new neighbour (as of the day before) had dogs, I guess. Rusty responded so for the sake of a peaceful breakfast, I returned him inside.
Despite my disdain for my newly-acquired house, it boasted a pretty, secluded garden, perfect for taking breakfast al fresco, whilst still in my pyjamas. Which I was doing, when I decided to slide along the bolt on the hen-house, to release Dorothea and Lysistrata into the garden, to frolic and peck and generally partake of chicken-like activities, seeing as their enemy, The Dog, was inside. The two chickens are very different; whereas Dorothea is big and white, Lysistrata is small and brown. And whereas Dorothea ambles around (unless she’s launching a violent attack on potential suitors), Lysistrata runs around like – well, a headless chicken, only she’s got a head. She has an endearing habit of burying herself in soil, leaving chicken-shaped and chicken-sized dents all over the flower beds. Dorothea watched in fascination for a minute, on this particular day, until I plopped her next to her house-mate and she, too, discovered the joys of bathing in soil.
Breakfast over, I went back inside, leaving them flapping about in the flower bed, the air filling with feathers and soil.
I looked out a few minutes later and party-time in the flower bed was over. Dorothea was pecking around on the grass and Lysistrata was . . . nowhere.
I shot outside and scoured the garden for a small, brown hen but my scouring was in vain. I looked at potential escape routes but the garden was like Fort Knox. I didn’t see how it was possible, but hearing next-door’s dogs barking, I wondered if she was next-door. I ran down the driveway, hopped into their garden and called out her name:
‘Lysistrata!
. . . several times.

Why?

Why did I call her name?

Did she know her name?

Do chickens even have ears?

Would she have responded anyway?

I spotted her, under a bush, starting to bury herself. Phew. Another minute and she would have been completely camouflaged. I bundled her into my arms and as I turned to head home, I just caught sight of a curtain closing as the man next-door had clearly been watching me. In his garden. In my PJs. Calling out the name of a Greek farce. There was nothing for it . . . I’d have to change her name to avoid this kind of embarrassing situation in the future. I’d call her Rocky. After that chicken in Chicken Run who was always escaping.
I decided that she must have squeezed her way through the bars of a gate, so I blocked off the gate and got on with my day.
Ah . . . summer. Walked the dog, had a coffee in the café on the seafront, wandered home, let the chickens out again in the fortified garden and got ready to go out. I was going out Toby-hunting of course, with a dedicated single friend. The difficulty with finding yourself single again, is finding people who have the same agenda as you, with which to have a night out. Not that my agenda was anything nefarious, but people in relationships, generally, don’t want to drink too much, stay out late or flirt. There are exceptions, amongst my friends, as many of them accompanied me to The Folky Pub in those early Toby-hunting days but tonight I was partying with a dedicated single friend.
I’d bought myself a whole range of cropped tops to wear whilst Toby-hunting but tonight I decided to wear the original cropped top I’d been wearing on the fateful evening of back dimples and red hair. While I got ready, I recalled how his hand had gently brushed against my lower back and just the thought of it made my hair stand on end (in a good way). Then I noticed the time and decided to put the chicks to bed and leave, if I were to catch the next bus.
It was evening but not yet dark, being summer and I felt bad for putting the hens to bed early but the summer stretched ahead of us, so I put Dorothea in first, as she was always more conspicuous, then scanned the garden for Rocky.

No.

Not again.

She really wasn’t anywhere.
I went next-door (at least I was dressed this time, even if my top was cropped) . . . nothing.
I walked up and down the road, looking in gardens – I even asked a group of teenagers if they’d seen a chicken walk past – nothing (and they could barely stifle their giggles. I’m probably still known as ‘the mad chicken lady’ in those parts).
I wasn’t hopeful of seeing my little, funny, brown hen again but I got in the car and drove round, very slowly, hoping to spot her in a front garden and fortune smiled on me. Well, her, actually, because she would have been Mr Fox’s supper if I hadn’t found her. And I realised how she escaped because there she was, FLYING over a garden fence. Once again, I found myself in someone else’s garden, looking like I was stealing a chicken.
I drove to my night out, after finally putting my little runaway (flyaway?) to bed, because I was late, thanks to her, so didn’t drink, didn’t find Toby and was in bed by midnight.
I received a message from Wimbledon Man just as I was going to bed, wondering if I’d like to meet up. His communication was tardy, I felt and anyway, I had Toby to consider, which I knew he wouldn’t understand, so I told him I had another chicken.
And that was that.

Being a school-night, I’d given myself plenty of time to get home, put away the chickens (yes, I’d given Dorothea a present of a play-mate. She was a little ungrateful at first, giving Lysistrata the same treatment as Wimbledon Man, but by the next morning, they were friends for life – however long that was – give or take a few feathers) and wind down before hitting the sack.

But sleep seemed an unattainable goal that night. Over the course of an evening, everything had changed. Such is the nature of being single. Life is much more predictable when you are in a relationship. Clearly, it was all over with The Dude, which was sad, but expected. I felt the relationship was ambling towards a dead-end, but while I stopped to admire some flowers, it started hurtling at break-neck speed towards that brick wall.

And then there was titian Toby. I kept replaying our brief meeting . . . he took me by the hand and complimented my back dimples. I complimented his hair . . . I made the mistake of mentioning Mick Hucknall and he visibly prickled so I apologised. Turned out he didn’t like Mr Hucknall and he felt stereotyped by my faux pas. But we continued to chat and agreed that the trilby-wearing black guy playing ‘original blues’ who was the backdrop to our conversation, was indeed an amazing musician. I returned to The Dude but Toby and I were sitting close enough to each other to snatch the occasional interchange.

Then he left.

And I didn’t notice.

I left . . . and I passed him as he stood on the pavement with his friends.

And then I realised how stupid I’d been . . . he hadn’t left the pub – he’d gone outside to smoke! I thought he was rude, for chatting me up and leaving without a word, but I was the rude one, for leaving without a word! This was simultaneously wonderful and catastrophic. Now I had more reasons for sleep to evade me but at some point, my mind gave way to sleep because at 6am my alarm went off and I woke up.

The Dude had sent me some long messages, telling me it was all over, which I didn’t really expect. I mean, I knew it was over from the disastrous date, but I figured it was a given. He hadn’t noticed that another man had chatted me up – he had plenty of other reasons which were all really the same reason, that I didn’t love him. Only he didn’t say it just like that; they were wrapped up in an array of insults. I didn’t love him, but I’d never claimed to do so, so I felt it was a moot point. He told me not to contact him again, so I put my phone away and went to work.

I didn’t intend shouting from the rooftops about Toby, but I did. I told my colleagues that I’d met my lobster and they were pleased for me. Then I told them that I went and lost him and they sympathised. They advised me to return to the same pub that night, being sure to wear a back-dimples-revealing top, so I did.

Alone.

He wasn’t there, so I went back the next night . . . and the next night, until I felt I needed reinforcements. So friends started to accompany me to the folky pub, but there were some nights when I had to brave it alone. I couldn’t afford the time or the money to go there every night, but I made sure I was there on Sundays, for Open Mic night, because it was a great evening of free entertainment in a very cool pub and of course, because I’d met Toby on a Sunday. I was usually on my own, as it was a school night and it was difficult to persuade friends to support my cause on a school night.

It became like a local for me; the bar staff even began charging me ‘local’ prices and one night the amazing, trilby-wearing black guy who played ‘original blues’ came over and asked me when I was singing. I said I’d love to, but I could only play the piano to accompany myself. He offered to teach me how to play the guitar, we exchanged numbers and became good friends. I had to make it clear to him of course, just to avoid any confusion, my initial reason for my regular attendance in the folky pub.

But I still hadn’t found him . . .

I met The Dude in the centre of town on a particularly warm spring day. I was a little disappointed because he was such a scruff, but we went for a coffee anyway and in fact, it all went very well. It was not unlike a movie date, where you find yourselves constantly hitting on common ground. Because we enjoyed chatting about books, movies and music so much, and because we were loving the long-awaited arrival of the sun, we ordered more coffee and then I found myself physically unable to stop talking, because my body is Ninja-trained to expect just one cup of coffee per day. But The Dude didn’t seem to mind . . . in fact, roundabout early evening, when I was wondering what to do with my evening, he texted and asked if a second date in one day would be too much? I guess not, because I was on the next bus into town and that was the start of a lovely relationship.

We went to see local bands (folky, jazzy, punky) . . . We went to the movies (cool indie movies in half-empty Bohemian cinemas) . . . We had an all-round great time for about a month. Then it all got a bit serious and there was a bit of jealousy and I started to wonder if I wanted this in my life. But anyway, there was an Open Mic night I wanted to check out in a folky sort of pub, so we arranged to meet up there. Weirdly, he’d brought his friend. This wouldn’t have been a problem if it hadn’t been for a couple of things: firstly, there had been tension between us, because he wasn’t happy that I had gone to London to meet up with a male friend. So I suggested the Sunday night sojourn to the folky pub, in order to help the wounds in his male ego to heal. Secondly, he hadn’t told me, let alone run it past me, about his friend. I felt sorry for him, actually – clearly The Dude was using him and he was blissfully unaware of this fact.

So the music started and it did not disappoint. We were sitting, for this strange, tension-filled, awkward date with three people in attendance, at a small square table right in front of the Open Mic, like an odd island of anger in a sea of fun.

The Dude chatted to Friend while I watched the music, then when The Dude went to the bar, Friend and I chatted, about Star Trek mostly and which series was actually a truer representation of what Gene Roddenberry would have liked.
Then something changed everything. Apologies to any friends or family reading this, because you’ve heard this story too many times already, so skip to my next blog post.

I noticed movement on the floor, to my left. I looked down and there was a hand, waving at me. I slowly leaned round the crowd of people that was obscuring the owner of the hand from my sight and there was an arm attached to the hand, which belonged to a man sitting on the end of a bench on the next table. With his hand, he beckoned me and then put the hand out for me to take and because he was the most beautiful man I have ever seen in my life, I allowed myself to be led over to where he was sitting.

He was tall, slim and with thick, shoulder-length, dark red hair. His name was Toby and he told me that my back dimples (I was wearing a cropped top) were the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. We chatted and I fell completely in love with him. (I’ve researched this, guys: it takes just 4 minutes of gazing into each other’s eyes to fall in love. So Jerry Herman was right when he wrote the song, It Only Takes a Moment, for the musical Hello Dolly.) Eventually, I returned to The Dude, because that was the right thing to do but Toby and I still chatted when big crowds of people weren’t in the way and clearly, he was as interested in me as I was in him.

Then I got lost in the music and at some point Toby left because I became aware of a silence to my left where once there had been happy noise. I made my excuses to The Dude and left. On the pavement, outside the pub, was Toby plus friends, obviously deciding where else to go. I was disappointed to say the least and a little baffled, but put it down to experience and went home.

Ah … you thought it was the end, but checked anyway! More on Toby in good time …

That first morning after the return from the Alps is always the hardest, I feel. Looking out of the window back in the UK, you can’t help missing the craggy, snow-capped horizon and there really isn’t anything like the cold mountain air filling your nostrils, your lungs, your mind. But my timing is strategic; I choose the very end of the season, so on my return, everything is warmer but most importantly, temperatures and people.

I collected the various animals from their various abodes for the week (there is definitely a gap in the market for a magical, as yet mythical place that looks after ANY animal – how wonderful it would be to have them all under one roof) and tried to get back to normality. I have a good friend who loves Dorothea, but if anyone is considering keeping chickens, it can be difficult to get them looked after for the week. As it was, I had to transport her hen house, so the poor bird had to travel in a borrowed butcher’s van . . . bad enough for me, being vegetarian, but I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her, with the more-than-faint aroma of ill-fated chickens who had passed on under violent and bloody circumstances.

Back to Tinder then and date number two with The Italian. He was late and it was a nippy evening, so I almost called it a night, but then I noticed a smiling, long-legged chap bounding toward me. Just wow.

‘Sorry sorry sorry!’ he apologised, with the dulcet, lilting tones you’d expect from a beautiful Italian man.

I didn’t actually reply for a moment, I was so struck by his beauty. Late? Was he? I hadn’t noticed.

We went for a drink and he liked to talk, so I did a lot of listening. I like to talk, but I was seriously struggling to comprehend most of his words. Like many people I know with heavy accents, he spoke at a rate of knots but with passion, so agreeing or disagreeing with anything was dangerous territory.

I did understand a few things though, like the fact that he was a Buddhist, a vegetarian and ate raw food all the time. He had a cute, black, peaked cap that he wore at a jaunty angle and I couldn’t help laughing when he removed it, as it had been hiding a completely shaved head. Nothing wrong with that, except that he was a hairdresser . . .

We met up again and ate at an Italian restaurant, which I found strange, as I thought he only ate raw food, but there we are. I let him choose, being Italian, and it was, without doubt, the most delectable Italian meal I have ever tasted. I was tuning in to his accent and understanding a lot more, but actually finding that it was hard to be a part of the conversation.

We met up one more time down on the boardwalk and I had come to the conclusion that our relationship was platonic, which was fine. He was, indeed, beautiful, but quite hard work, to be honest and clearly not even slightly romantically inclined toward me. I dropped him home after our date and he asked if I’d like to see his Buddhist altar. I felt I knew him by this time and as there was no romance and I was quite interested to see what a Buddhist altar looked like, I parked up and followed him into his abode.

He held the door open for me and I think I caught a glimpse of an altar (maybe it was Buddhist – who knows? I’ve never seen one) before the light mysteriously disappeared and he was closer to me than he had ever been on any of our ‘dates’. I have to hand it to him – he was smooth. And definitely interested in more than friendship! But I wasn’t and fortunately I had seen where the light-switch was and while he fumbled with me, I fumbled for the light-switch to reveal a look of shock on his face. Rejection must be hard when you are unaccustomed to it but maybe it was a lesson for him. A lesson for me too: ‘Buddhist altar’ is clearly a euphemism.

 

 

Skiing holidays are very clever. You get to all enjoy all the sinful pleasures of being on holiday (I’m talking food and drink here) without feeling guilty because you’re burning it all off on the slopes the next day! And if you stay in a chalet, as I always do, you won’t want to leave the chalet in the evening because of the lure of unlimited wine. And it’s a struggle to move, anyway, after the three-course meal which you eat even before you’ve properly digested afternoon tea which always comprises a different home-made cake everyday. Although it is true that afternoon tea can cause dissension amongst the troops whilst out skiing, as there are always those die-hard skiers who want to bash the mountain until the lifts have stopped, who put to shame those who like their creature comforts (or afternoon tea, anyway) and can’t stop fantasising about being warm and dry whilst necking tea and scoffing cake from about 3.30pm onwards.

But anyway, I digress. The skiing was a welcome break from the dramas back in the UK. I treated myself to a private lesson halfway through the week and learnt from the instructor where to buy hollow ski poles that you can fill with alcohol. I also learnt, on a separate occasion, that if you fall whilst off-piste and your ski becomes detached from your boot a long time before you come to a standstill (or a sitstill, if that word exists), and you lie in the snow, sobbing, for long enough, a man will help you, eventually. It was all going just fine and dandy until my son appeared from nowhere, having sidestepped all the way back to me, without my noticing (I was too busy fake-sobbing into the snow) and exposed my tears as crocodile tears. Which was fair enough, really, because they were and I could have climbed back up to get my ski, probably in half the time it took him to make his way back up to me. And he’s a fast skier, so he’d sidestepped for quite some time before reaching me. In my defence, it had been a long day and I was a little preoccupied with thoughts of French apple cake.

So, back to the Tinder updates . . . I found myself having Tinder conversations with 3 potentials whilst in the Alps. One was actually Wimbledon Man, wanting to put the whole scene from The Birds behind us and start over. Another was one that my friends had drunkenly chosen on my behalf, the night before departure, declaring he looked ‘like a bit of a dude’ and the last was a tall, stunning Italian. I kept ‘play-time’ on Tinder to a minimum whilst away and decided I would arrange a date or 3 on my return . . .

The week gathered momentum around Day 3 and it was all wrapped up far too quickly. Chalet holidays are bitter-sweet; I can’t really think of any other experience that is similar. You become so close to your fellow chalet-dwellers that they become like family to you. You see each other first thing in the morning, bleary-eyed, half-dressed in salopettes with the braces dangling, padding around in ridiculously bright ski socks . . . after a day’s skiing when you’re dripping with sweat and slush and full of tall stories . . . then finally at dinner, when you actually get to know each other and everyone smells nice once again. Then the week is over and you say goodbye, with promises of staying in touch but the reality is that you probably won’t see each other again.

Tough.

Tinder is a game. I have no doubt that some lasting matches have arisen from it, but for those of us who have emerged from the Tinder experience single, it is difficult to view it in any other way. You get ‘rewarded’ for getting matches, which encourages you to ‘like’ people, because obviously you increase your chances of matches then. But you only want to ‘like’ people you actually like, so you have to ‘play’ more so you actually find people you like.

So, I weaned myself off it until some friends came round and were intrigued enough to make me want to show them my new toy. One of them said, ‘hey – how about we choose for you?’ It was one of those drunken suggestions that seems like a laugh and indeed it was . . . They sat either side of me and hooted with laughter whilst randomly selecting unlikely men. I was going on a therapeutic skiing holiday the next day and so I went off to the Alps armed with a whole new set of Tinder matches.

My journey to the Alps was one of the worst journeys in the history of journeys. Ok, I’m not including those of intrepid explorers like Captain Oates or the entire crew plus passengers on board the Titanic, but in terms of reaching holiday destinations, it was pretty horrific.

It started badly when the taxi was late. Now, the taxi company I used was pretty much at the end of my road. I waited till the due time, then called to hassle them and they still took 10 minutes to arrive, even though it is about a minute’s drive away. Now, I was not in the best of moods by the time he arrived but bizarrely, he was in a worse mood! No tip for Mr Taxi Driver then. So, we arrived at Brighton Station and in my naïveté, I thought it would be open. At least, I thought it would be open by 3.50, when my train was due to leave but no, it opens at 4am. This is good to know for future reference. No matter what time you book your train for, if it’s the small hours, it won’t leave till some time after 4 even though they have this whole selection of fancy times on the website.

So, there we were, my daughter and I, in town at around 3.30 am on a Friday night, being jostled at the locked gates of Brighton Station. I felt like I was in one of those movie scenes where you have to share a cell with a bunch of hardened criminals and you’re the goody goody who shouldn’t be there because it’s all a mistake . . . Or a zombie movie where the undead are clamouring at the conveniently locked gates. The second analogy is more fitting, given the drunken state and vacant looks of most of the would-be passengers. Silently (lest I should burden Rhiannon with my fears) I concerned myself over the likelihood of any of these reprobates sharing our train. I hoped that, like zombies, they were merely drawn to the gates because they were locked.

My thoughts, descending into increasing negativity by the second, were interrupted as the gates creaked open. The openness of Brighton Station was most welcome as we scattered and left the drunken contingency of the crowd at the gate to stagger slowly and aimlessly.

A few of the zombies made it onto our train, so we moved carriages and as zombies are not known for their cerebral prowess, we managed to outsmart them and shake them off. The train stopped at every possible stop plus a few more. The journey was so long that I think some new places actually popped up in the suburbs along the way. Finally, we reached Waterloo, only to discover that my son’s coach had been delayed . . . We waited . . . And waited . . . And then he arrived with a few minutes to spare.

And breathe. We arrived at Paris with one hour to cross the city to board the train to the Alps. This sounded easy but was not . . . After nearly falling off the (incredibly slow) Metro in my haste to board it, we finally threw ourselves onto the snow train literally seconds before it departed.

Surely we could relax now, I hear you say! Well, we did, but we still had one final leg of the journey. The bus from the train station to Tignes. Which was fine, until it arrived in Tignes. Just somewhere in Tignes. Now, it was getting dark by this time and we’d had our quota of stress for one year, and we were tired . . . And hungry, so this was not ideal. We wandered around for a bit, with luggage in tow, then spotted a small shop in the distance, about to close. I spluttered some French, failed to understand his reply, but the children took note of his arm gestures and so we managed to wend our weary way to our home for the week and everything became worthwhile. I took my phone out and what should greet me but 3 Tinder notifications . . .

So, Christmas came and went, children returned to uni, I returned to work and Tinder mysteriously appeared, downloaded, on my iPad.

Well! After a spell on Tinder, I told so many people that I could write a book about it, that the least I could do was write a blog about it, so here goes . . .

I waited until January 11th. Hubby had announced his unexpected departure on November 11th and I promised myself that I would give him 2 months to change his mind, after which time I would draw a metaphorical line under our relationship and move on. He had said, too, that maybe he just needed ‘a break of a couple of months’.

Anyway, back to the slightly sinister world of internet dating!

I started ‘liking’ random faces of random men on my iPad, not once considering that they were anything more than 2D images on my tablet. The 2D images started ‘liking’ back and I started getting cheesy rewards of wobbly hearts with announcements that I had matches. It still seemed like a game . . . which is what Tinder wants, I believe, on the grounds that once you get a match, it asks you if you want to ‘continue playing’. Then the 2D images started to message me and I found myself having conversations with them . . . I wondered if they, too, considered me to be nothing more than a 2D image and how many females they were chatting to, besides me.

After some interesting conversations, such as whether or not I had the physique for nude hiking in Southern France (that conversation was wiped and the match unmatched), I had my first Tinder date with Wimbledon Man. The following is entirely true; I could not improve upon this account if I tried.

We met in town and he seemed nice enough. We’d chatted a lot on Tinder and become friends on Facebook and a concerned friend had insisted that I inform her of my whereabouts for the duration of the date. So, after careful consideration I came to the conclusion that I could invite him back to my place for dinner.

It was an unusually warm evening and as Dorothea (my newly acquired chicken – long story involving my daughter, her housemate, his friends and a farm) hadn’t been out of her run all day, I suggested we sat in the garden, sipping red wine, watching my big, fat, white chicken frolic.

So there was Wimbledon Man, sitting in my garden, sipping red wine, looking rather dashing in his light cotton trousers . . . There was Dorothea, boc-boccing around at his feet and there was me, walking over to join them. Wimbledon Man smiled and nodded in the direction of the hen house, on top of which my glass of Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon sat, looking ready to round off a lovely first date. I approached the hen house, stretched my arm to collect my glass and heard the most terrible sound I have ever heard. I spun round to the source of the noise and like a scene from The Birds, there was my beautiful chicken, levitating near Wimbledon Man’s shoulder, emitting a noise that a chicken could surely not emit. His arms were curved around his head, in a protective position, as she was managing to attempt an attack on him whilst making the terrible, alien sound.

I leapt forward to help, glass in hand, but unfortunately, wine did not stay in glass and within seconds of the ambush by Dorothea, poor Wimbledon Man’s light cotton trousers bore the stain of a whole glass of red wine. Dorothea was returned to her run, to have a good, long, hard think about her behaviour and we went inside. After I attempted to mop up the stain, Wimbledon Man sat down, finally, to enjoy his wine. I put some music on and went to join him on the sofa, only to be greeted with the scene of the dog humping Wimbledon Man’s leg . . .

So that was Wimbledon Man. Rusty’s penchant for sex with random strangers’ legs knows no bounds so his opinion is not to be trusted (and I’d hazard a guess he rather liked him, based on that) but Dorothea became my judge and jury from that moment on. If she didn’t like him, neither did I . . .