Part 145: This Blog


Birthdays are alarming events. They exist only to smash you in the face with life’s brevity. For reasons I’ve yet to care enough about to google, we have ritualised an annual reminder that, guess what, we’re getting old and will definitely die one day. Oh, and if that wasn’t bad enough, you might want to think about how you’re the only one of your secondary school peers still to procreate. No really. Those girls you used to drink Bacardi Breezers with, even though you secretly hated them – the ones who had bigger hips and better looking faces and more satisfying sex lives than you (which is to say, sex lives) – are mothers to teenage offspring now. That’s biologically possible.

I don’t have offspring. No babies, just a blog. And, on Friday, this blog will turn three. (Three! Can you believe it? Where the fuck has the time gone?! Doesn’t it look just like its mummy now?) If it were a baby, instead of a blog, with fat biteable cheeks and dinky hors d’oeuvre hands, I could post an album on Facebook charting its development. I could caption a series of Instagram pics with saccharine but sincere declarations about how it has changed my life. But it’s not a baby. It’s a blog, and I’m wondering where we go from here.

‘But why are you still single?’ Several people (most of them men wanting casual sex) have asked me recently. ‘You’re gorgeous, funny, intelligent, self-sufficient and excellent company. And you have incredible boobs. It doesn’t make any sense,’ they tell me. As if I didn’t know that already.

And of course, part of the answer is: because I want to be. There is freedom that comes with independence. With doing it for yourself instead of hanging onto the oversized beard of some arsehole just because you’re scared of being all alone.

Though of course, I’m a human. A grown woman at her sexual peak who wouldn’t mind meeting a man she can trust and making one of those fat little babies. Especially since last week, when I watched a David Attenborough documentary in which he told me that having babies is the actual meaning of life. So, another answer to the perennial ‘but why are you single?’ is that this blog is potentially to blame.

I mean, would you want to date someone if you knew that, with any wrong move, you might be exposed as a loser to literally dozens of people? I would not. And psychologically, I am not certain that writing about how I love being all alone is that brilliant for me any more. I’ve got myself convinced, which means I am totally unavailable and aloof. Distantly alluring, but cold and unattainable, like the archetypal ice-queen.

It was great at first, when I needed to get over a relationship that hurt me and my frenemies were all telling me that I’d have to ‘get under someone else’ to do so. But now that I’m over it (and have dumped the judgemental friends into the bargain): not so much.

Which is all a round-about way of telling you that I’m going to take a break for a bit. Just until the end of May. Just to let the blossoms bloom on the branches of the trees. Just to give my mind a rest and my heart a minute to open up – and then I’ll be back, in June, at the start of summer, with my breasts out and my disdain for all things in tact, but softened maybe. Healed but visible, like a scar.

Until then, my loves.x

*Image is “Birthday Cake” by tiverylucky at