Queen of the loudmouths.

Empress of Indiscretionville.

A right gobby git.

Pick any one of those three descriptions, point in my direction and you’d win a weeks caravanning in Weston–Super–Mare for selecting a matching pair.

You see, last week, after some outstanding flirt action I secured a small date with the grown-up equivalent of the high school hunk.

The hottest chap in our office with grey peepers so steely you could sharpen your bluntest kitchen knives on them ¬– if it weren’t for the eye-gloop that would squirt all over your best apron that is ¬– and a stature so pant-wettingly glorious we girls would set up an actual shrine to it if we didn’t think it might result in some sort of restraining order.

Truly delicious.

Only the Baby Jesus himself knows how I managed to secure this date, but secure it I did. And as you might imagine, I was pretty darned chuffed to boot.

Having arranged a small dinner for the following Saturday I spent the preceding week rattling on and on and on to anyone with shells prepared to listen about ‘how excited I was and that I was sure we would hit it off and that I’d definitely report back on his much debated ‘tongue skills’ come Monday morning’. It’s a wonder nobody thwacked me round the bonce just to shut my pie-hole.

Saturday came and I was feeling pretty damn confident, I couldn’t wait to get down to some serious snog action with Mr. Sexy-Bollocks and I headed off to meet him with flirtatious fire in my eyes…and my loins!

….Sadly my friends, said loins were quickly and thoroughly put out.

The date wasn’t an out and out disaster or anything bonkers like that, but it wasn’t exactly the love-fest I was expecting either. We had about as much spark as a box of damp matches and we parted company early in the evening with nowt but a small handshake by way of a goodbye. Booooo.

Now I’m not too fussed that this didn’t work out – after all, it rarely takes me long to knock up a new flirt friend – the thing that really did erk my chops was that on the Monday I had to shuffle into the office and face the barrage of people asking ‘how did it go, how did it go, how did it go’…and admit that they should return any hats they had already purchased for the wedding.

I’d banged on to so many people that not only did I have to explain what had gone wrong once, but twice, three, twenty-five times and more. Yikes. I spent the entire day with a red face from the embarrassment and bruised buttocks from my crash back down to earth. No less than I deserve I suppose, but from here on in I shall be stapling my ridiculously flappy lips closed. Not a peep or a squeak before a date shall I utter, my ego (and my buttocks) can’t take the pain!

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