Dry patch

I feel as if the life-blood has been drained from my very body. My skin is a dry, papery husk; my bones brittle and liable to snap at any second like a box of twiglets dropped from a moving bus; and my heartbeat has all the enthusiasm of a pixie’s whisper. Rubbish.

“What on earth can be the problem?” I hear your ever-enquiring noggin ask.

Well my friends, it has been an entire yonk, if not two, since I last found a new playmate to flirt with. Ok ok it’s actually been about 10 days … but don’t forget, when it comes to flirting, I work in dog years.

As a rule I regularly uncover a new ‘flirt-friend’ in our local drinkery, or amongst the various employees in our office, or, of course, amongst the hoards of lovelies on our (normally extraordinarily reliable!) Flirtomatic. But not of late. Oh no. Not even a sniff.

Don’t get me wrong, there are boys out there, tons of them, it’s just that right now none of them seem to raise my dander much higher than ‘luke-warm’. What the dingle-dong is going on?!

My chums tell me that I’m being foolish, that it’s perfectly normal, and that they frequently have months on end when they don’t come across even the merest hint of a lovely new boy… GULP… Months? Yikes! With all that I live for taken away I feel certain I’d literally shrivel up and die, like a real life ET, only without the pointy, glowy finger thing.

So what to do? Well, first off I decided to take the advice of my chums – after all, this, apparently, is something of a regular occurrence for them. They recommended that I get off my big round buttocks and do all the things I never usually have time for- taking clothes to the dry cleaners, checking my bank accounts, cooking a new recipe- and such like. After 24 hours of this hellish behaviour I decided that it could actually become an official form of torture. No human being, especially me, should ever consider a conversation about overdrafts with a snotty bank manager a replacement for a damn good flirt. Ridiculous. So I kicked that idea into a vat of rotten eggs never to be seen again.

After winding up the old brain cells a few more notches I concluded that the idea of ‘being productive’ was not such a stinky one, but it needed to be put to better use. I decided to practice my best chat up lines, perfect my body language and polish each and every surface and crevice of my weary flesh and bones, so that when I do next happen across a chap with a twinkle in his eye and a bulge in his pocket, I am in full green-light mode to GO GO GO!

After all, it can’t be too much longer until I am once again furnished with a man who makes my horn blast and my undercrackers sing…can it? Can it? CAN IT!?

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