Tummy all bibbly and quibbly?

Noggin so distracted you can’t remember whether your socks go on your feet or in the fruit bowl?

Peepers locked on your phone so firmly it’s all you can do to stop your fish fingers catching aflame?

Yes? Yes? And yes?

Well my friend you sound like a person in the first throws of fabulous flirtation – you’ve met someone fantastic, been out a few times, and now you’re doing that strange emotional dance ¬– figuring out when to call, how often, and what level of keenness to display. Heavens to Mergatroide, this is a tricky old monster to crack.

The hardest thing for me always seems to be the balance between wanting to send a gazillion texts a day, eagerly change plans in order to see him and generally saying ‘yes yes yes’ to anything he suggests (not in that way you filthy buggers!) but at the other end of the scale, trying to hold onto that air of intrigue and independence that ensures he keeps putting in effort because he’s still not 100% sure I’m that interested.

So tricky do I find this beast I’ve been known to glue my own paws to my very buttocks in order to prevent me from continuously fingering the edges of the call button. I’ve also received the occasional thwack around the bean from a chum when I’ve suggested canceling plans so that I could skip off with some lovely young buck – and quite right too.

It’s not that I really believe in the daft games chaps and chapesses so seem to enjoy, it’s more to do with the fact that were they to respond to my constant attention at an equal level to mine, the fandango going on in my pants would quickly disappear to a damp fizz (and not in a good way). Loopy as it might sound, too much attention is about as appealing to me as the Annual World Spider Convention getting together in my pajamas. And this may of course, be the case for said chap too.

Don’t be too aloof of course. Waiting three months to reply to a text is going to make you appear more than merely ‘casual’. But a small smidge of restraint never hurt anyone – wrap your mitts in bacon, sellotape your ears to Geoff Capes’ thighs, rub your mobile phone against the inside of your granddads long-johns – do anything not to look as eager as a ferret in a trouser factory. Your pants will be grateful in the long run. I promise.

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