Londoners Magazine

It’s funny how quickly things can change. One minute you’re being dragged under by fortune’s wheel, and the next you’re cruising to the top.

My best friend in New York sent me a message three weeks ago. She was feeling beaten down by dating woes. I tried to cheer her on, but my message of cheerful optimism quickly digressed into my own personal tour of Dante’s Inferno.

In the email I said: “Don’t ever throw in the dating towel darling… What the hell am I talking about? I’m right there with you. I was recently dumped by a man I knew I should never have been with. But that is my modis operandi, isn’t it? I generally hook up with men I share little in common with and we ignore our differences until the sex goes bad; at which point we leave the relationship bitter and disappointed. I just thought I’d be the one doing the leaving.

“I have been in no-man’s land (well, -no-straight-man-will-come-near-me-with-a-10-foot-poll land) for eight months. I haven’t gotten any for eight months, two days and 20ish hours, but hey, who’s counting - right?

“And the only reason I even remember I have a libido is because I’ve been having very odd dreams which involve a guy I dated 10 years ago.

“But I manage not to kill myself each day, because in the end affection is nice; but it’s the friends I love that carry me through everything.

“Cheer up sweets. Don’t feel bad. The right guy will come along. It might even be soon. And, as they say: once you stop looking - BAM! That’s when Mr Perfect comes around. I think it’s because when we girls are looking to hook-up we emit “desperation” pheromones or something to that effect. And no guy likes the “desperate” girl.”

When I sent that letter, I didn’t realise how prophetic my words were.

I had resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to find a nice fella. I was certain that five years from now my mother was probably going force me into an arranged marriage with one of the strange men at her church that she’s always raving about.

I had stopped looking. And that’s when I saw him. I met a very special lad at a party the day after I sent my friend that letter.

If you told me three weeks ago I’d be writing my blog after a productive, sleepless night, in which I did my best impression of a nymphomaniac, I would have laughed. But it’s happening. The lad is downstairs making me pancakes as I type away. That’s the way things go: one minute luck is dragging you under, and the next - you’re coasting to the top.