Maternity leave?

I have always had a strong work ethic. I got my first job at 13 and I have

worked ever since. I am sure it has something to do with the fact that I live

a champagne lifestyle on a lemonade budget. I like to eat well. I am the

Taxi queen- why walk when you can get there in half the time in a cab? I

like to taste the alcohol in my drinks- you can keep your Gordons, mine’s a

Tanquery 10 thank you very much! When shopping, if It fits, I buy it, in every

colour,there and then. Who the hell has time, or can be bothered to see if can be

bought cheaper elsewhere? I have a lunch date to get to. With Tanquery and

Tonic. You see where I am going with this. The paradox is, despite the

strong work ethic, I also have a penchant for spending as much time as

humanly possible sitting on my sofa in my pyjama’s watching Grey’s

Anatomy, 24 and Extreme Makeover home edition. I am a lazy workaholic.

When I am there I am there, 200%. But the more time I can spend on the

sofa, the better.

Pregnancy changed this. I suddenly wanted to spend every waking moment

at work. So much so, that I rented out my place, renovated the flat above

work, and moved in, much to the dismay of my staff, as pregnancy had turned me into the nightmare bitch boss from hell. I was now going to be there 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Two of the team quit as they didn’t want to find out how much worse I was gonna get.  I lived at work. Literally. I worked as many hours as I

could. My Mum tried to keep me off my feet and in the office, but I was far

happier running up and down the stairs serving customers. I had the guests

in shock as they asked me when the baby was due and I told them in 2

weeks!  As it was a family business, I was my own boss, so it was up to me to

send myself on maternity leave. I didn’t. Instead I continued to work until

my waters broke.

Exactly a week before my due date I decided that I had had enough. I had

been up the duff  for long enough, the bun had cooked. I wanted her out.

That day. So I phoned my Mum and told her as much. She proceeded to tell

me that it didn’t work like that. That is was up to the baby to come out

when it was ready. There was nothing I could do except wait. “Wanna bet?”

Was my response. So we did.

The plan was to go for a long walk along the South Downs, followed by an

extremely hot curry. I planned to finish the evening with some solo fun. This

ritual was to be continued daily for the next 4 days. I’d have that baby out

by the end of the week. It was Thursday. If the baby was out by 11.59 on

Sunday I had won.

Mum arrived at the restaurant, walking shoes on, ready to go, when a phone

call came from The Chef. He was sick and couldn’t come to work.

Mum was gonna have to fill in. Bollocks. I finally decided to go on my own

when the phone rang again. This time it was a waiter. Apparently he had

the runs. I was gonna have to fill in. He was on a split shift so I would be

working till at least midnight. So would Mum. Double bollocks. I knew for a

fact that they had been out, together, the night before. Bloody men,

thinking it’s ok for a grandmother in her 50’s and a heavily pregnant crazy lady to

work their 14 hour shifts because they had hangovers. Grrrr. 

It was busy. Very busy. I spent the entire afternoon running, well, waddling around like nobody’s business. It was exhausting but fun. Mum and I decided to get some air during our break, so we went to Nando’s for some Peri Peri . I went for extra hot as I still had a labour to induce and a bet to win. Dinner service was even busier. I’m waddling around even faster, making a killing in tips, as the customers are either amazed that I can still move that fast, or feeling sorry for me, as I clearly must really need

the money or I would be at home with my husband, being served tea and

biscuits with my feet up. Little did they know that I was moving at the

speed of light, because I was desperate to win the bet and take a fiver off

my Mum. Oh, and meet my baby, of course.

 I was on fire. I’m witty, and funny and the best waitress in the South East

of England. I felt fantastic for the first time in months. As I was locking up,

grinning inanely at my newly acquired wealth, Mum announced that she was

spending the night. My bump had dropped. Significantly. We were walking

up the stairs to cash up, when my waters broke. I may just win that fiver.

Sex and the pregnant single gal

My attitude towards being pregnant was just as unconventional as the

circumstances which led to it. In short, this pregnancy was not going to

interfere with my fun lovin’, free wheelin’, girl about town, givin’ it large

lifestyle which I had grown to love. This proved difficult at first, as my

nearest and dearest collectively stopped inviting me out, assuming that I

would rather be at home knitting, drinking Horlicks and watching Corrie. I

very quickly put them straight. I was pregnant, for god’s sake, not 60.

 As the smoking ban was due to start the following year, most of my haunts

had decided to get in there early to acclimatise their clientele. This made

my many nights out even more fun, as I wasn’t worrying about poisoning my

unborn through passive inhalation. I had even devised a cunning plan with

my nearest and dearest which enabled me to believe I was drinking proper

drinks. It involved them warning the bar staff that I was in the family way,

so when I ordered my double Tanquery 10 and Tonic, they would get a single

measure, turn it upside down, half fill it, and pour it into a pint glass. They

would then fill said pint glass to the brim with ice, then tonic. I would only be

charged a fraction of the price, and they would tell me it was because I had

such a pretty smile. It was fabulous.  The bar staff thought they were in on

a conspiracy, exchanging knowing glances with my nearest and dearest,

throwing me the occasional pitying look, whilst gossiping behind the bar

about the tragic pregnant woman who couldn’t seem to give up the Gin.

The plan was flawless for the first 5 months as my bump had not yet reared its

bulbous head. As I started to show, however, I had to contend with

disapproving looks from ‘valid’ drinkers. You could almost hear them

thinking “what on earth is that pregnant woman doing here? She should be

at home knitting, drinking Horlicks and watching Corrie”  Instead I was out,

having fun, drinking fake G&T’s and ruining their night. One woman, a total

stranger, I must add, actually offered to come with me to AA, as my nearest

and dearest clearly didn’t have my best interests at heart, especially as

they were the ones buying the drinks. My sister had to be held back, as she

was ready to knock the bitch out! I was secretly quite touched that she cared.

It also didn’t help that I was shamelessly trawling the bars for a man to put me out of my misery. Not that I had any luck. Single men aren’t turned on by heavily pregnant women that have nothing to do with them. Funnily enough. Which is a shame as it’s a well known fact that women in their second trimester have the

ability to turn into rampant nymphomaniacs.  When I first read this in a pregnancy

bible, I scoffed with disbelief. “Impossible” I thought, “what women, in

her right mind, is going to want to have sex in this godforsaken state?” And

that was the crux of it. How many pregnant women are in their right state

of mind? I certainly wasn’t. I discussed this with my sprogged up, female nearest

and dearest and was dismayed to find out that it was true. One, who shall

remain nameless, was so insatiable, that her husband pretended to take up

five a side football so that he could feign a groin injury when her demands

got too much. “match days” were actually spent playing poker with the

boys! I insisted that this would not happen to me. They all nodded in

agreement, secretly thinking to themselves “We’ll see.” I saw. BIG TIME. It

was a nightmare. I was horny all the time. And the fact that I knew that

there was no one available to put me out of my misery, made it even worse.

I made a list of every man I knew who may be selflessness enough to help me out. I

began to see Noel Edmonds in a whole new light. This was getting serious. I needed

a release, and quickly.

Later that week, my friend with the fake footballing husband, caught me

checking out the personals section in the back of the paper, it had got so

bad I was considering paying for it. I was forced to admit my predicament.

“Just use one of your toys, you have hundreds of them” was her response,

“Couple it with some porn, and you’re good to go.” she delivered breezily,

like it was the simplest thing in the world. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?” I spluttered,

“Surely that’s a bit, you know, dangerous. What if the vibrations induce

labour?” At this, she laughed. A lot. For a long while. “Sweetheart, when

the hubby refused to put out, I was at it so much he threatened to move out

until the baby was born. Just hit the Box Office button on your sky remote,

choose your flick, press the red button and all your troubles are over.” She

then developed a far away glint in her eye, like she was reminiscing about

days gone by.

I disregarded it immediately. I couldn’t. Could I? No. I

shouldn’t. But who else would? But it’s wrong. Isn’t it? Maybe if I just use a

small, less powerful toy, without the visual aid. That would be alright.

Wouldn’t it? And there it began. My slippery slope into semi hardcore, girl

on girl, two guys on girl, three girls on guy, rampant rabbit, mains

electricity supplied, pleasure pants whilst doing the shopping, quick fumble

in the loo whilst at work, solo sexual addiction began.

The first time was the worst. I did what my friend suggested. Pressed the

appropriate buttons on the remote, entered my pin, pressed the red button

and nothing. Then a message appears on the screen, “No phone line

detected. Please call to order your movie”. Shit. I had forgotten about that.

What the hell was I gonna do? I had watched the 10 minute teaser designed

to draw you in. I had been drawn. I was ready. I was SO ready. All I had to

do was complete the transaction. But that involved speaking to an actual

person, telling them what channel I wanted unlocked. They would know

what I was about to do. The shame of it. I could see it now, the whole call

centre wagging their fingers at me down the phone. A woman ordering porn,

and a pregnant women to boot. Bloody disgraceful. Social services would be

waiting for me in the delivery room to take away my child as I was clearly

unfit. I couldn’t do it. But I really needed to, as I was about to burst. So I

sucked it up, picked up the phone, dialled, and was connected to an

automated answering service. Jesus loved me after all. I was a solo sex fiend from that day onwards.  Not that this was anything new as I had long ago discovered the joys of the sex toy, I just never imagined that I would grow to love them even more than I already did, or that my collection would be as varied and grand.

The amazing pregnancy weight loss plan

The Twin and I had been friends for nearly 20 years before we slept together for first time. We met at primary school. I was in the year above and took it upon myself to be his protector. He was a small kid, what can I say? To this day there are still marks on the playground wall where I used to measure him after the holidays to see how much he’d grown. His mum and my mum became great friends. She moved to Brighton, and few years later so did we. I remember being pleased that I had at least one friend in my new city. The Twin and I started hanging out again. We mostly spent our time drinking on the seafront or smoking spliffs in his mums garden. There was never any sexual tension between us as we had known each

other forever. And then one day, out of nowhere, he kissed me and everything changed. We spent the next few years shagging like bunnies. We never considered having a relationship as ours was perfect as it was. Two people who had been

friends forever having lots and lots of really good secret sex. We were insatiable. We met during lunch breaks at work. I’d go via his house when on the way to the supermarket for a quickie. He’d be late meeting the boys for a pint, blaming it on

his car needing servicing when he was actually servicing me. We had relationships with other people during that time, and we were never unfaithful, but as soon as we were both single we’d be at again. The Twin eventually moved back to London. We spoke occasionally but not often. Whenever he came down to visit he spent at least one night in my bed. It was just the way it was.

I didn’t have to tell him why I was calling. He guessed. He didn’t ask me what I was going to do. He knew. I didn’t even have to tell him that there was a question over the paternity as he knew all about my illicit affair with The Canadian as I had told him the night we went out, not that it stopped him from ending up in my bed. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. I knew. He threw himself into the possibility of fatherhood with abandon. He started to save up what little money he had for the baby. Checked that I was eating properly (I wasn’t), moved back to East Sussex,  he even sent his mum to come with me to my first scan, as my Mum was out of the country. In short, he manned up and dealt with the situation as best he could.

The Canadian was a different story. I didn’t hear from him directly for a

couple of months, just the odd message through The Chef. When we finally did

speak, it was awkward, to say the least. We didn’t know each other well

enough to know the other’s headspace. He was still smitten with The Blonde  

he had met the day after (possibly) conceiving (possibly) our child. Even worse, he

had failed to tell her that another Non Blonde was expecting said child. His

family still had no idea. He had basically buried his head in the oil rig on

which he worked, hoping it would all go away. Not that I blamed him. I was  

doing the same thing except my head was buried in the rocks on Brighton

beach whilst my bump got bigger by the day.

The rest of me however wasn’t. I had turned into the amazing shrinking

woman. As my bump got bigger, the rest of me got smaller. It was amazing.

I went from being a size 18 pre pregnancy, to a size 12 at 7 months

Gestation. I looked INCREDIBLE. My midwife put this phenomenon down to

stress. I put it down to luck. Everyone else put it down to the fact that I was

not eating.

 I have always been a slightly larger girl. I LOVE my food. I get

seriously pissed off if I miss a meal. I get nasty if I eat a meal without

enjoying it. I feel cheated and then I have to eat something else that I will

enjoy. Food is my friend. I have never understood eating disorders. Why

deprive yourself of yummy treats? What is the point of eating an amazing

meal, If all you are going to do is chuck it up again? To me, that is just

pointless. And a waste of good food. So imagine the surprise of my nearest

and dearest, when I start to not want to eat. It very quickly turned into a

habit. The less I ate, the less I wanted to eat. It was so easy. Shame it’s not

so easy now, I am nearly back at my pre pregnancy size, damn it. My

nearest and dearest tried everything to tempt me. They took me to my

favourite restaurants, hosted elaborate dinner parties, they even tried

bribery. Nothing worked. I was not interested. My bump was growing, my ass

was shrinking.                                                                                                 

It had become a running joke that I was not myself. The hormones had turned me into a snappy opinionated miserable cow. My nearest and dearest had come up with a rota system, they took it in turns to see me, making sure that none of them had to endure more that 5 consecutive days and that a rest period of at least a week was included. I was totally immersed in self pity. It transpires that they had no idea how ill I had become. I snapped and griped to hide the fact that I felt like I was dying inside. I felt like I was totally removed from myself. I had decided to keep my baby because I wanted it. I desperately wanted it, but I hated being pregnant. There was nothing redeeming about the experience. My body felt totally alien to me. I would spend hours in tears, with no idea why I was crying. Every time I looked at my bump my heart sank. It was like there was an inner argument taking place, part of me desperately wanting to keep my baby safe and well, counting the seconds until I met it- the other part not able to look at my pregnant self in the mirror as the feelings of shame and self loathing consumed me. Who gets pregnant

by one of two men? What kind of disgusting person am I? How the hell am I going to cope with a baby if I can’t even take care of myself? What man is going to want me now that I have a kid? I’m going to be single for the rest of my life because I couldn’t be bothered to use a condom. Is it really worth it? These thoughts raged through my mind and I was powerless to stop them. It was like a vicious circle. The

more I worried, the more depressed I became, the more I alienated my loved ones, the more they backed away, the more alone I felt, the more I worried, and so it went on.

The thing was, the less I ate, the more I wanted my baby. I knew deep down

that I could jeoarpordise its health by not eating properly, and I

desperately wanted it to be healthy. The obvious answer was to eat. Yet

hard as I tried, I couldn’t do it. The Twin got increasingly worried, bringing

me locally sourced organic foods, full of folic acid and essential fatty acids,

watching me force it down with a keen eye, safe in the knowledge that once

it was in, we were golden, as he knows and agrees with my opinion on the

wastage of good food.

 Nothing worked, nor was it going to. I had control over something again and I wasn’t giving it up. I had no control over the outcome of my pregnancy. That was taken away from me when I decided to have under protected sex with two men in the same week. I was petrified of the impending paternity tests. The chances of The Canadian being the father was far higher than The Twin, I was 75% sure

that my child to be was half Canadian. This knowledge caused the

problem. It would have been far cleaner if The Twin was the dad. For

starters we lived in the same continent. Secondly, we had known each other

forever, our parents were friends, our siblings were friends, His parents

were excited about the possibility of becoming Grandparents. They had not

judged me. He was involving himself as much as he could, and as much as I

would allow in the pregnancy. It was just easier.

Yet I couldn’t honestly say that that was the outcome I was hoping for. God

knows why. For all the reasons why it was easier for my child to be The Twin’s it

was impossible for it to be the Canadian’s. He barely called. He had flown

over from Canada twice during my pregnancy, both times to go on holiday with The Blonde, whilst I was granted an hour audience each visit. He still hadn’t told his

family, or The Blonde, for that matter, even though conception took place before she existed in his world. What was the point in telling, when the baby may not

be his? Why loose the love of his life for no good reason? I argued that if she truly

was the love of his life, and, more importantly, a woman of any merit, she would

appreciate his being honest with her, and offer to support him during this clearly

stressful time. If the baby turned out to be his, he would have to tell her, and she

would dump him. Not because he was a dad, but because he hadn’t told her. He

totally disagreed. It was silly to upset people for no good reason, and that, was the end of that. I was his shameful little secret. Not the best feeling in the world, I can tell you. So I controlled what I ate. Obsessively. And the more concerned my nearest and dearest got, the more I controlled what I ate. The attention I craved

from The Canadian was being supplied by everyone else worrying about me.

Job done.

 As a result of my ever increasing bump verses my ever decreasing ass, my

obstetrician insisted I have regular scans to check that my baby was

developing properly. At my 12 week scan I was told, quite sternly, that scans were purely for medical reasons, to check baby’s development and screen

for possible defects. Pre natal scans were NOT designed for parents to have a little

peek at their offspring. I nodded in agreement, “Of course Mr Sonographer,

I totally understand, silly parents thinking it is all about them. I would still

like a picture though, if it’s not too much trouble…” I ended up going for

scans every few weeks from 20 – 39 weeks. It was incredible. My baby had grown so

much since I had last seen it. It looked like a person, a

living breathing person. I started to look forward to my bi weekly scans as it

gave me a chance to have a little peek at my offspring. I found myself trying

to decipher features to see which man the baby looked like most, any clue

would do. Needless to say it didn’t work. But what it did do was give my

tiny ass the massive kick that it needed. She (I was still guessing she was a

she) was a real baby than needed real food in order to survive. I made it my

mission to eat as much and as regularly as I could. I went from eating Nicole

Ritchie sized portions once a day to eating Victoria Beckham sized portions

twice a day. Progress was made. Now all I had to worry about was what I was actually allowed to eat.

You see, I’m a medium rare, fois grois, Salmon sashimi, Stinking Bishop, Oyster eating kind of girl. In short, my favourite foods are all the things I am supposed to avoid whilst preggers. So you can imagine my dismay once I finally regained a semblance of my former appetite, that the things I crave are totally off limits. It’s bad enough that I’m denied my  glass of wine after work, and the lack of my bedtime Scotch was driving me to distraction, and don’t even get me started on the fags I had given up cold turkey. No, this defiantly would not do. I reasoned that I had been eating these things for decades and I had never been sick, what possible reason was there to stop now? “Harmful bacteria”, was the very stern answer from my midwife. “Undercooked meat, Unpasturised cheese, cured meats and raw fish

are a definite no no. You don’t want to put your baby at risk do you?”. “Of course not, but millions of French women have been eating rare meats forever, Japanese women have been having healthy babies since time began and I’m sure that Italian

women continue to eat Parma Harm and their babies are just fine.” I countered. She scowled at me. I refused to back down. She threatened to get the Obstertrician, I told her to bring it on! I argued my case to him. He listened, smiled

and asked if I was prepared to make a deal. I told him I was willing to listen to his terms. Pate, oysters and unpasturised cheese were out. Parma ham, medium to medium well and Sushi were allowed. In moderation, obviously. We shook on it. I smirked. My midwife threw me a look that would curdle cream. I lived on Sushi from that day forward. I also changed midwives.

Hormonal cow

I knew within a few weeks of my pregnancy that I was carrying a girl. Not

because I found out the sex, but because everything I felt was so

heightened, and it could only be explained by all the extra female hormones

I had acquired. I was manic. I felt everything. Fully. Hollyoaks reduced me to

tears on more than one occasion. Deal or no Deal was the height of high

drama, and Ann Robinson’s cutting remarks on the Weakest Link were

comedy genius. Something was wrong. Very, very, wrong. My nearest and

dearest have since told me, that at times, I had become evil incarnate. I am

willing to admit that I went a little crazy.

The first sign of my increasing madness was the decision that I took to tell

the truth about my situation. To everyone. It’s bad enough having to tell

your parents, both of whom have ministers as mothers, by the way, that you

are pregnant. And not whilst in a relationship. Add to that, the fact that

there is a question about the paternity, and you have the makings for a very

awkward conversation indeed. Just picture it- “Mum” or even worse “Dad,

I’m pregnant.” So I have admitted to my parents that I am sexually active,

“I plan to have the baby, and raise it alone” Alone, actually meaning, with

a LOT of your help. “Although I am sure that the father will be supportive,

both financially and emotionally. As soon as we figure out who the father

is!” Here is where I wait for the world to end and the screaming to start.

I am not only having sex, I am having a lot of sex with a lot of people. I have

become a guest on Jeremy Kyle. I am an embarrassment and disgrace to the

family. I am on my own in this one.

This I what actually happened: “Mum I have to tell you something.” “You’re

pregnant aren’t you”  “Uh, yeah, how did you know?”  “your Nana told me.”

At this I gagged. “Eh. How the HELL did she know? I haven’t spoken to her in

weeks!”  “Well” begins my Mum, “as I was driving her to the airport, she

told me that she thought you might be pregnant. So I have known for a few

months now!” “well she was wrong, because Nana was here in March, and flew

home a full month before the Canadian arrived, so there!” “Oh, so The

Canadian’s the father…” Oh lordy, walked straight into that one!

“maybe.” “What do you mean maybe?!”  “I think he is.” “What do you mean?

you think he is, he either is or he isn’t…..” and there the penny drops. “K!”

She calls out, “YOU ARE NOT GONNA BELIEVE WHAT YOUR SISTER’S GONE

AND DONE!” At this point I am willing myself to drop dead, right there, on

the spot. And then I hear it, down the phone line, the unmistakeable sound

of my Mother and my sister wetting themselves laughing.

I got a similar reaction from almost everybody I told about my situation.

Mainly because, as my sister pointed out once the hysterics subsided, this is

so unlike me. I was the good one. She was the delinquent. I got grounded for

being 20 minuets late for curfew, she got arrested and cautioned for

assault. I went to my first club, a low key Jazz Funk night in Covent Garden,

when I was 17, she went to her first Jungle rave, in a warehouse in Aldershot

on her 14^th birthday. I got pregnant whilst in a long term relationship, she

got knocked up by one of two men whilst drunk on Mount Gaye. Hang on, switch

that. The point is, this kinda of crap happens to her not me. Except this

time, it didn’t. And she loved it. For the first time in our relationship she was the

responsible adult and I was the screw up. This one was going to run and run.

My very good friend R had a very different reaction, and understandably so.

You see, it just so happens that R is married to the Chef that The Canadian had come to visit. R is also the twin of the old friend in whose arms I awoke when The Canadian went to London. She didn’t know that The Canadian and I had been

sleeping together. She had NO IDEA that I had slept with her twin. Imagine

her surprise when I told her that I was pregnant and that it was either down

to said Canadian, or said Twin, whom I’d been shagging on and off for the

past 5 years! It was a bit of a shock. To say the least. She needed wine. Lots

and lots of wine.

 We met for lunch a few days later to discuss just how the hell I was going

to break the news to them. There were no words that I could find to make

the situation ok for either of them. I was agonising about this when R

interrupts with the following: “I don’t know why you are so worried about

The Canadian, it’s not like he wasn’t shagging some Blonde at the same

time!”  EXCUSE ME! “Didn’t you know?” she asks, as she registers the look of

horror on my face. “He met her when we were out for J’s (her husband the chef)

birthday. He is TOTALLY smitten. He made us meet her before he flew

home. She seemed nice enough.  Apparently they are spending hours on the

phone and she is flying out to visit him. I was sure I told you.” She had not

told me.

To say I was devestated is an understatement. The Chef’s birthday was the day after our final fumble. Suddenly it all fell into place. Why he kept disappearing in

the club, why he was keen to stay out, on his own, at 4 am, while the rest of

us were calling it a night, why, when he took me out to dinner a few nights

later, he kept checking his phone and then feigned tiredness when I

suggested carrying on the evening at my house.

I felt insulted. Bastard. How could he? Did I mean nothing to him? Expletives

and insults about his manhood and performance in bed ensued, until R burst out laughing and told me to have a word with myself. Why were we out having lunch in the first place? That’s the problem with hanging out with people who have known you since birth, they will always tell you the truth, especially when all you want is sympathy. So I had a word with myself and calmed the hell down.  Many

glasses of wine later – R’s not mine, we decided that The Chef would tell The

Canadian and I would tell The Twin.

Oh S**t!

I always imagined that I would be in a long term relationship, possibly even

married before I started having kids. I never, in a million years, imagined that

I would find myself having a series of drunken encounters with a Canadian

tourist who was FAR too pretty for me. I DEFINEATLY did not see myself

 having an even drunker fumble with an old friend within a week of said

encounters with The Canadian. I actually joked with my best friend B about

the situation, as sleeping with more than one man in such a short time

frame is not like me. AT ALL. We were out having dinner, and I said to him

“I better not have got myself knocked up, that would be a bloody disaster!”

To which he replied, “don’t be stupid! Have some more wine” and that, I

thought, was the end of that.

Two weeks later I was singing in a cabaret show. I was very excited. I had

dug out the gold corset, perfected my songs, convinced my nearest and

dearest to come along for support and the pregnancy test I had taken that

morning was negative. It was a good day. Directly before the performance, I

had my ritual Tanqueray and Tonic. It didn’t taste right. It didn’t warm the cockles

and limber the chords like it usually did. It felt wrong. So I left it unfinished,

something that NEVER happens, and went on stage. Perplexed.

I took another test the following morning. Again, it was negative. I knew it

was wrong, the unfinished Gin from the night before had proven

this. So, I went to Boots and bought another 4, and took them each

morning for the next 4 days. Day 4 confirmed it. Shit.

Eight weeks earlier I had been living the dream. My business was going from

strength to strength, so much so that we had relocated to larger premesis. The new

place was huge with living accommodation above. One of my chefs had a friend

coming to visit from Canada for four weeks, and as he and his wife were

staying with her mother whilst their flat was finalised, there was nowhere for the

Canadian to stay.  He was apparently a dab hand with a paint brush and a hammer

and would be happy to help decorate the restaurant in exchange for a place to

sleep. It was a win win situation. He got free board, I got free labour.

The Canadian had been with us for a week before I met him. There was evidence of

his existence, a painted skirting board here and a repaired door handle there. The

busty blonde who kept turning up to wait for him and a female member of staff had

been gossiping about the cute guy who she had spotted coming out of the shower.

To say I wasn’t curious to see what all the fuss was about would be a lie. To accuse

me of spending far longer than was necessary cashing up every night in hope of

catching a glimpse would be justified. To suggest that my mouth dropped open and

a little drool escaped when I finally caught that glimpse would be bang on the

money. The man was hot in a Calvin Klein underwear model sort of way. The bluest

eyes I had ever seen on a man with such dark hair. Chiseled jaw line with a chin

dimple that was begging me to lick it. Well dressed, good shoes, big hands, tick,

tick, tick. He was sex on legs. It felt a little stalker like watching him from the darkness

 salivating, so I found my voice, stepped into the light, and knowing that this man was far 

too good looking to even bother flirting with, introduced myself. 6

hours, 40 fags, half a bottle of rum and lots of laughs later I woke up in his arms wondering how the hell I had managed to get myself there.

The next three weeks were spent in a flurry of nights out, mornings in and me constantly questioning who I’d been good enough to in order to deserve all the wonderful sex I was having. I was, to put it simply, in heaven. It was clear from the start that our little arrangement was nothing more than a holiday fling and  I convinced myself that The Canadian was shagging his way round Brighton. How could he not be?  looking the way he did. I was clearly batting outside my region. I prayed that he wasn’t and he did nothing to confirm or dispel my paranoia.

The weekend before he was due to leave he went to London for a night out. I hadn’t seen him for a few days and was feeling pretty bummed. I went out for drinks with a very old friend who was down from London for the weekend to cheer myself up. 12 hours, 80 fags, a bottle of rum and so much laughing I almost peed myself later, I woke up in my old friends arms wondering when I had become such a whore.

You see I have always been single. At the grand old age of 26, my longest relationship had lasted for 9 months and that was when I was 19. I have no idea why. I’m not a girly girl, never have been. I don’t get jealous. I appreciate my space. I encourage my boyfriends to spend time with their mates. I’m not clingy, needy, insecure or overly emotional. I don’t rely on the man to make me happy and

fulfil my life. I don’t text every other hour and I don’t insist on spending time with my man every waking second. I’m not offended by porn and I enjoy giving head. In short, on paper, I’m the perfect girlfriend. Yet I remain forever unboyfriendable.

My nearest and dearest have put it down to a combination of my stupidly busy lifestyle and the fact that I radiate “I don’t need a man” vibes. They seem to think that if I were to play the simpering chick I might have more luck. Not appear so together, act a little dumber than I really am, make them feel important. I refuse to behave like a fool, so I stay single. On nights out I surround myself with beautiful girlfriends and hot man friends as they make excellent wing people, especially my Danish gal, who is possibly the most attractive person I know. Classicly beautiful, long blonde hair, green eyes, perfect skin, killer body, 100 watt smile. The kind of girl whom all other girls instantly hate on sight. I know as I was one of them. She worked behind the bar of my favourite hangout. I made a point of never ordering from her as I couldn’t bear the idea of her standing close enough to me that comparisons could be made. My best friend B, who also worked there, was constantly banging on about how amazingly cool she was, how I had to meet her as we’d get on like a house on fire. I completely disagreed. How could anybody that beautiful have any kind of personality? This girl had it made, with her out of this world looks and doting boyfriend with a selection of very nice cars, beautiful home and seemingly fat wallet. We could never be friends.

 One cold November night, I was in the bar, having a quick drink, when I heard one of the owners complaining that he was short staffed for the holiday period. I offered my services. I didn’t need the money, but as I wrote my own hours at the restaurant it would be easy for me to fit in a couple of shifts a week to help them out. I also knew it would be a lot of fun as I would get to work with B and would have all the free alcohol a girl could wish for.

 I spent hours deciding what I should wear for my first night shift, as this bar was always full of single men with money to burn, and I was hoping to make a killing in tips and possibly leave with one of them. I decided on a denim skirt over black wool tights and a black vest top which optimised my cleavage and accentuated my curves. Casual, yet sexy, in an understated way. I walk in, and to my dismay, the Danish hottie is not only stood behind the bar, she is also wearing a denim skirt over black wool tights teamed with a black vest top. I wanted to cry. There’s all size 16 of me, competing for tips with all size 10 of her. In the same fucking outfit. This was not good. I’m considering running home to change, as I’ve arrived early and I only live around the corner, when she spots me, looks me square in the eye and shouts, pretty much at the top of her voice, “How the hell am I supposed to compete with her tits? Bloody hell, they’re amazing!”  I’m stood there flabbergasted as she thrusts a shot in my direction. She then proceeded to spend the entire shift pouring shots down my throat which had been bought for her by every single man she served, and making sure that my staff drink was never empty. By the end of the night I’m drunker than I’ve ever been in my life and have made more tips than I ever imagined possible.

  A few weeks later she invited me to a Christmas party at her house. She was planning a girly night as her boyfriend was going up to London to party with the lads. The plan was for everyone to bring a dish and a bottle, and we would eat, drink and be merry before going to a club. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go. I didn’t know any of her friends, hell, I barely knew her. I was intimidated by the ones that I had seen visit her in the bar as they were all as slim and shiny as she was, and the thought of being the dumpy girl didn’t fill me with much excitement. I wasn’t

going. I’m settling down in front of the telly when I get a text from the Danish hottie –“ Where are you? Would you mind bringing some soft drinks with you – there’s shit loads of vodka and nobody’s brought mixers! HURRY UP! xxx” I felt bad, as she was expecting me and I hadn’t told her I wasn’t coming. I throw some clothes on and call a cab. I arrive 30 minuets later laden with soft drinks, to be greeted at the door by the Danish hottie throwing her arms around my neck, gasping “Thank god you’re here!” She then leads me in and introduces me to a room full of stick thin, tick haired, bright eyed beauty’s with absolutely NOTHING to say for themselves. There’s a mountain of food, which none of the other girls are even looking at, I’m guessing there’re afraid of it, and enough Vodka on the table to open a bar. The Danish Hottie proceeds to make me the strongest drink known to man before launching into the crisps and dips with gusto. The stick thin, thick haired beauties look on in disgust. I’m stood there with no idea what to do with myself, as the Danish hottie is inhaling the hummus like her life depends on it, and the others are avoiding my eye in way that suggests they’re afraid my size 16 genes might be catching. I have to get out of there. Fast. My plan is to say I’m going to the toilet and sneak out. As I’m slowly backing out of the door, the Danish Hottie catches my eye and offers to show me where the toilet is. Bollocks. She then proceeds to take my hand, runs up the stairs, pulls me into the bathroom, locks the door, pulls her dress up, her pants down, and starts to pee. In front of me. Strangely enough I’m impressed, as I pee in front of my friends all the time. She then takes out her phone and orders a cab to meet us at the corner as soon as possible. My hand is grabbed yet again and I am pulled down the stairs, out of the front door, and straight into the waiting taxi. Is this really happening? Has she just

snuck out of her own party? She then extricates a bottle of Tequila from her handbag, takes a swig, passes it to me, then leans over as if to whisper something in my ear, and burps in it. She laughs, pays the driver, drags me out of the cab, then says to me “hold on, I’ve just got to do something,”  pulls up her dress, down her pants and moons all the passing cars. Stands up straight, lets out a sigh of relief as she says “that’s better” and marches into the bar. I’m left standing outside in a mixture of awe, admiration, disbelief and love.

It turns out that the stick thin thick haired bright eyed beauties were mostly the girlfriends of the boys that her partner was out with. She had been begged to have this party by him so that the boy’s would be let out to play. She had no idea how awful they were when she’d invited me, she honestly thought it could be a fun night. She was on the verge of tears when I arrived, and could tell that I was planning an escape, and there was no way she spending another second in that room with those people without me. I remind her that she had left them at her house. She didn’t seem too bothered. Half of them lived locally and the others were due to stay the night there anyway. She would text them in an hour letting them know where we were if they wanted to join us. Funnily enough, they didn’t. The Danish Hottie has been my Danish Gal ever since, and she makes an EXCELLENT wing man. Her plan is beautifully simple. She spots a group of guys with potential, gets their attention and allows them to buy us drinks. She then proceeds to act the drunken fool, whilst I am left apologising for her, and playfully telling her off. The guys continue to buy us drinks, in the hope that she will cop off with one of them, (she NEVER WILL), and she acts up even more. I’m left looking like the despairing, cool, sensible friend. She works out which one I like and proceeds to terrorise him,

which leaves me free to defend him and his honour in a flirty playful kind of way, which makes him feel like a million bucks, as he is receiving all the attention – abuse from the hottest girl in the room, and praise from her not so conventionally hot but sexy in her own kind of cool way friend. It never fails. There have been the occasional disasters, like the rather hot guy who chased me all night, and when I finally succumbed, he got offended as he was sure we had slept together before. I knew for a fact we hadn’t, as I would have remembered someone who was as equally good looking as he was bad in bed. After investigation, it turns out my sister had pulled him a few months previous and failed to return any of his many calls (he really was bad), and he was heartbroken as he really liked her. On meeting me, thinking I was her, he thought all his Christmases had come at once. Poor boy.  I’ve had one night stands, and I am always careful. They are few and far between, but when they happen, they are usually lots of fun.

 It seems that my attitude to sex was more on par with a mans attitude, as I had been single for an eternity, and, lets face it, a girls gotta eat. It wasn’t until I awoke in the arms of the second man in as many days that I realised just how loose my morals had become. I decided at that moment that my knickers were staying on for the foreseeable future.

After the Canadian had returned home, of course!