It’s been a busy few weeks in the Sexton household. First Thomas and I agreed on a romantic dissolution, then a few days later I received a marriage proposal. All in all, it hasn’t been the quiet life.

For those of you with a romantic turn of mind, don’t get too excited. The marriage proposal was from an old boyfriend and it was firmly grounded on practical considerations – he has been having issues with his UK work permit – and came with an offer of actual cash attached. Woo hoo!
Ending a three-year relationship isn’t easy and even if you’re both agreed it’s the right thing to do, you can’t help having bleak moments of introspection. But luckily this is where friends come in useful – particularly those who are not after your hand in marriage.
I’ve noticed when it comes to cheering up a newly single person, my friends efforts fall into two broad camps – drink and distraction. The drink brigade believes in the medicinal benefits of alcohol, while the others have instead been trying to keep me busy.
However, there are those who are convinced that the best thing for me is to find another man, and pronto – the old “the best way to get over one man is to get under another” school of thought.
Not that there isn’t some truth in the idea, but – shocking revelation coming up – I need more inducements than just availability and willingness if I am going to feel the urge to strip down naked with a man and do unspeakable things to his body. I’ve got to feel some kind of connection, excitement and chemistry, or I just don’t see the point. Fussy, fussy, I know.
Life would be a lot easier without friends who are determined to fix me up. Triona, always a woman with a practical solution, suggested a friend of hers.
“If he’s all that, why don’t you have sex with him yourself?” I suggested helpfully.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she replied with a little shudder. “He’s ginger.”
On behalf of redheads everywhere, I smacked her.
“Well, you have to shag someone,” she told me huffily, muttering something about someone somewhere being ungrateful. I have no idea who…
My elder sister suggested her husband’s cousin. She phoned me up to remind me that he was single, working in Edinburgh and had fancied me when I was a mere slip of a girl. “He makes a lot of money,” she added as an extra incentive.
But I remembered this cousin well. Too well. When I was fifteen he’d snuck a video camera through the bathroom window as I was taking a shower and embarrassed me by showing the footage repeatedly. Plus, back in the day he had a blond mullet and wore mirrored sunglasses with the legend “USA” etched onto the lenses. Yeuch! Even if he’s grown up to be George Clooney’s younger brother, I just couldn’t. Not if he was the last man on earth. Some crimes are unforgivable.
Then there’s Sarah. Now you couldn’t meet a nicer girl than Sarah, however hard you search. Sarah is a pearl among women – a bright shining example of how wonderful the female of the species could be, if we all had her even temper, generosity of spirit and good nature. Plus she’s gorgeous. But she has one flaw, and it’s a biggie.
While Triona wants me to shag anyone and Sally wants me to play happy families with her in-laws, Sarah has a compulsive need to match-make. She wants everyone to be loved up; to come in matching pairs; his ‘n’ hers – she’s a veritable modern day Noah of romance.
On a night out, she thoughtfully pointed out all the attractive men that crossed her line of sight. But she was casting pearls before swine and was less than impressed to have me reject them all out of hand.
“He’s cute,” she told me, inclining her head to a man walking past us coming from the bar. In fairness he was, but it was a mistake agreeing with her. “Go talk to him,” she urged me, like a mother persuading a reluctant child. I was less than eager. “Uh, nah, I don’t wanna,” I responded or words to that effect.
This was another mistake, since Sarah seemed to think that if I was going to act like a sulky teenager, then the teenage approach to romance was needed. “Do you want me to talk to him for you?” she asked. Good God, woman! We’re not thirteen anymore!
After that little tableau, I was forced to call out the big guns – Humphrey, my best friend and her boyfriend. “Call her off,” I pleaded. “Remember the last time.” He nodded sagely, since “the last time” nearly caused war between the lovely Sarah and me.
Sarah had decided a random bloke at the taxi rank had been eyeing me up – a very attractive random bloke, but still – and upon learning that he was headed in the same direction as me, asked him if I could share his cab. He was very nice about it, but I was so mortified, I could have cheerfully murdered her right there, in the middle of Dame Street, damn the consequences.
She had the good sense to be embarrassed afterwards, blaming her behaviour on a touch too much vodka, but I don’t trust her. Furthermore, with Sarah egging me on from the sidelines, I become far too self-conscious to flirt with anyone. Even sex columnists get shy!
Worse still, my mother seemed to be getting in on the act. “I hope you’re not sitting at home. Go out and have some fun,” she recommended. I assured her I was out as often as my wallet would allow. “Good. Plenty of fish in the sea, you know,” she added darkly. I doubt she was suggesting casual sex –probably not – but I may just decide to interpret that way. Shagging with Mammy’s blessing – that’d be a first.
Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t lost my appetite for life. Or for sex. Quite the reverse in fact – I’m damned horny, which seems to me to be one of the universe’s unfortunate little jokes. But it’s only been a few weeks – hardly enough to qualify me for the nunnery – and I think a little break is probably a good idea.
In the meantime, I think I’ll stick with my vibrator. But if it all gets desperate, well, at least I know there’s a young man willing to give me £3,000 to marry him. A girl likes to have options.