After what can only be described as an emotional and devastating week, I logged on to Plenty of fish when a few notifications popped up. It’s not an app I use a lot. I think I met one guy from it. I don’t like anything about it. It feels darker somehow. But sitting at the kitchen table I logged on and had a message from a guy who spoke as if POF was his local and he knew everyone.

“You’re a newbie here?!” My first thought was, had this guy spoken to every other woman on the app that he knew i was new enough. I told him I didn’t really use it. I wasn’t bothered and I wasn’t. I had regretted logging on, regretted replying to a message and starting a conversation I really didn’t want to continue. But he was funny. These damn funny men with their sense of humour resulting in me naked in their bed. I needed a laugh. I needed to forget about the sadness that had engulfed the community in recent days so I gave him my phone number. I had plans to write, the laptop was open and waiting for me, my motivation back with a bang. But the call came. There was no whatsapp, no quick text, it was straight into a phone call. The call lasted close to 3 hours. Near midnight I was walking up the stairs with a small grin on my face reading a text from him that said he really enjoyed the conversation and he couldn’t believe that we had arranged to meet the next day. For a few hours I had laughed, the heaviness in the air lifted and I forgot about “he who doesn’t know I exist.” It was nice and needed and a man seemed to really enjoy my company. This is the biggest part, he didn’t state he wanted a ride in a car park, didn’t straight away jump into what my likes and dislikes were but he wanted to meet me on the basis of a chat. He wanted to meet me, not what i was capable of doing in bed.

I recently read about a thing called Limerence. It causes obsessive romantic thoughts. I don’t know if thats what I have but I do know my mind will jump very quickly to nights in by an open fire or dressing up and nights out. It happens quick and stays in the confines of my mind. I will have romantic fantasies of roses and trips away and cuddles just because he wants affection. My mind will bring it to the extreme in seconds and I’m normally very good at shooing them away. But last night I let them stay. I let them stay because the other person that normally involves those thoughts and fantasies is out of reach. I let them stay because this was the first conversation I’ve had with a man in a long, long time that didn’t end up with talk of sex and I loved every moment. I didn’t realise how badly I craved that and it made the thoughts of something sexually happening all the better. We had agreed to meet at 11 this morning and I mentally picked out an outfit and went to bed. I went to bed smiling and hoping that maybe this was what I was looking for but couldn’t get with “he who doesn’t know i exist.” I was happy.

I woke up this morning, got into the shower and sent the good morning text but just as I hit send I realised his profile picture was gone and the dreaded one tick stayed as it was. I logged back on to POF and he was gone from there too. I had been blocked everywhere. I stood in my bathroom with a towel wrapped around me and a million thoughts flew through my mind. Had he somehow seen a full length picture of me? Had he seen one where I’m smiling fully and my wonky teeth are visible? Did he know I sleep with a cpap machine and the thoughts of it put him off? Or did he see the fine lines and boobs that have dropped? Instantly I was the problem. It wasn’t due to the fact that he was just a grade A cunt, or that he might have been married or in a relationship, maybe he was out on bail? No. My mind focused on my flaws and I somehow turned me into the problem. I stood on front of the mirror and I let the towel drop. I cried. I cried for a body that was never admired when it was at its best, either by me or the man who said he loved me. I cried because lately I feel as if it’s failing me in every possible way and I cried because I felt so unloveable. Not unfuckable because men aren’t fussy, a standing prick has no conscience, but unloveable. I stopped picking at flaws that sat before my eyes and began picking at the internal ones, am I too needy? am I too aloof? Am i too sarcastic? Or maybe I’m just too funny and witty and he can’t keep up. Someone mentioned the other day that I have very low self esteem and the thing is I don’t feel like I do. In certain situations I’m very confident, I have no problem standing on front of a mic and talking to crowds, I generally have no problem been naked and I know I’m good at certain things. But when things like this happen it seems to be the natural thing to look inwards, he ghosted me therefore I must be at fault. Had he rang me this morning and said it was too soon to meet or that he just wanted a chat on a lonely Saturday night, there’s nobody that would’ve been more understanding than me. I get it. I would’ve been disappointed but I certainly wouldn’t have spent my Sunday overthinking a 3 hour conversation wondering where I scared him off followed by crying into a mirror.

Ghosting sucks. Ghosting and blocking with no explanation is such a cruel thing to do to another person. I don’t understand why someone can be so brazen behind a screen, yet can’t have the decency to give a reason, even if its a lie do the decent thing. You have no problem whipping out your average and quite honestly disappointing cock and sending a picture to a woman who I promise you is lying when she replies with “OMG that’s so big”, harness that energy and confidence to use your words and send a text.

I’m sitting here with my Sunday almost over annoyed. I’m annoyed at myself for getting drawn into that conversation last night, for allowing myself for a few hours to believe that he was going to be different. I’m so pissed that like a magpie getting distracted I didn’t just sit down and write like I had planned. A Saturday wasted and a Sunday spent moping. The dreaded Sunday loneliness that I was beginning to emerge from has now set me back. A weekend wasted on thoughts and daydreams. A weekend wasted on a man won’t even give me a second thought as he goes about his weekend and week. I will not let this set me back, I’m still motivated to finish the novel I started, I have given myself a deadline and I will keep using these cowardly fucks for content to write here. Mark from POF you are a cunt.

Now when those feelings hit or the memory comes flooding back I pick up my phone. There is always someone on tinder who wants a chat on a Sunday. I’ll swipe, match, chat, daydream that this guy is going to be the reason I delete all dating apps and waste the day. I’ll feel less lonely until I crawl into bed and realise that I will probably never hear from him again, that he was just feeling the same way I was and needed a void filled for a few hours.

Craig was one of those guys who I matched with on a Sunday. His profile was well written stating that he was going through a spiritual journey and I was intrigued. I wanted to know what a spiritual journey meant to him, was he finding his way back to God, was he following Buddha, or the ways of paganism. Most importantly I wanted a conversation that felt real. I didn’t want one that begun with “You look like you have big tits.” Craig was 35, a lot younger than me and very cute. Most of my life I have always been more attracted to older men (Can we all say Daddy issues). I still am to a point but I’m finding the older men are behaving the worst on the dating sites. The ones who are recently divorced behave as if they are 18 again and trying to sow wild oats that expired 20 years ago. The younger guys seem to be more respectful, at first anyway and thats the ones who don’t immediately run into the older woman fantasy. Seems there’s mammy issues as well as the daddy ones.

Craig started out normal with the usual “Hey, hows your Sunday going?” , when we both told each other where we lived I lost hope straight away. I always said I’d drive to the moon for the right man, but logistically with a commute to UCD during term time I need to be realistic. He was up North about two hours away. I expressed my concerns straight away and he followed up with “I don’t mind travelling.” Turns out he’d be commuting via broomstick. Before I go on, please don’t think I judge anyone based on religion or race. If someone tells me they are in the process of finding themselves through a spiritual path I am genuinely interested. I think it’s a great path to go down. But bear in mind, these messages were within the first five minutes of matching.

He began to tell me about his spiritual journey and how he was going through a process of finding out who he was in a past life. He said he was giving me homework to do by researching Hecate and Thor. Homework? I ignored the condescending tone in that message and told him I found that very interesting. This is where he got interesting.

“My guardians that I have so far are Odin, Tyr, Thor, Christ and recently added to the list is Heimdall.

Currently interacting with him in my third eye when I meditate.

Also had connections recently with Baphomet, Sekhmet and Osiris.”

I googled. I went straight into a shallow dive of those names and within 10 minutes of reading I gave up. It felt as if there was some conflicting ideals going on.

“Wow. you sure have a lot going on. (in your head). Tell me, what do you do for work.”

“It’s all positive. The seem curious about me for some reason.

Oh I don’t work. I’m out sick at the moment.” I bet you are Craig.

“Thats great about the curiosity.” I was at a loss in this conversation but didn’t want to end it based on his beliefs.

“Well I am currently dealing with past lives on my own journey. You probably notice a theme. I like war. A lot.”

“Well thats great that you’re on that journey Craic but it sounds like you have a lot to deal with at the moment and I’d hate to get in the way of that so maybe it’s best if we end the conversation here?”

“Below is a list of who I was and I think some of them are still with me in a sense. I sometimes hear them talking to me through me third eye.” Great, his third eye just grew ears and I’m beginning to worry that this journey he’s on might be a road into a mental health ward.

“Here is my list.

1:Joshua (Jewish warrior and head of the Israelites, most important battles were Jericho and AI.

2: Brian Boru. (Irish viking warrior, most important battles to him was Clontarf and Solcoit). I remember being Brian the most…..

3:Jaques De Molay (knights templar grand master, not happy with the way he died to be honest after all he gave up for the order, feel free to read up on it yourself). He’s teaching me stuff to do with the Templars.

4: Rudolf Hess (SS general and second in command of the nazi army and party.) What i get from him is regret, mainly in that he didn’t get to practice his abilites in the way that I can now.

“Craig. I can’t help but notice the Rudolf Hess has regret for not been able to practice his abilities. Do you think he might have regret for anything else?”

“Like what?”

“ The Holocaust maybe?”

“Oh no I don’t sense that off him at all. In fact he seems proud.” Holy shit I’m chatting to a neo nazi disguising it as spirituality.

“Okay and I noticed that all of your past lives, you were quite a big deal. What happened in this life?”

“My spirit is tired.”

“Of killing people?”

“Well no, of war and battles.”

“So killing people?”

“It’s a journey. In this life I seem to be more of a seer”

“Do you SEE this conversation going any further?”

“So I’m like a medium. I have psychic abilities. I know its more common a woman’s gift and not a man like me but someone has to have natural abilities to see into the future and see how the world ends.”

This conversation was like a literal descent into madness.

“Quick question Craig, when you said you were off sick..?”

“I was in hospital, but it’s okay because Brian Boru told me when I got out to flush the tablets down the loo. He said he’d protect me. He’ll protect you too when you become my lover.”

“When? Craig I’m really sorry but I don’t think we’ll be meeting.”

“You could have told me that before I poured my heart out to you. I really didn’t see this coming. I thought we formed a connection.”

“I thought you were psychic Craig.”

“I can’t just turn it on you know. Brian Boru says you are only a cunt anyway. He says I’m better off.”

“Alright Craig. Thanks for the chats.”

I unmatched from Craig there. I hope he and Brian find someone to love.

Nothing is real anymore. We all put the best parts of ourselves online, the best parts of our personality, the best selfies, the best angles and the best bios. But imagine if my bio was real….

“I’m Amanda. I’m 42, divorced and 90% of the time I wear a pair of green tracksuit bottoms with bleach on the legs, a top which definitely has food spilled down the front and I probably haven’t brushed my hair in 3 days. I take pics from a certain angle because I actually have 7 chins.

My boobs have dropped about 5 inches, my nipples point directly at the floor but they still work, just in the wrong direction and I’m getting Hollywood waxes since my 30’s because I was fully grey there. Oh and I’ve been told my labia might drop off at any minute.

I like reading. I will ignore you for a good book.” I think my self- deprecating humour is funny and I also think it’s an Irish thing. If someone compliments on an outfit we don’t respond with “thanks”, we respond with “Thanks I got it in the charity shop for 50 cent. It was pulled off a dead homeless woman” because God forbid anyone thinks we have notions. Sure we even shorten ‘Notions of grandeur” because, you guessed it, we can’t be having them.

But those things are the things we never really want anyone to find out, we keep them under lock and key and present ourselves in the best way possible in online dating. It’s normal in the same way if we were meeting in real life. We dress up, jump off the bed and directly into spandex or some other constricting under the dress thing and the bra will be a feat of engineering. But what happens when the person behind the profile picture isn’t who he says he is in any way, shape, or form?

It started with a match and blocks of texts that blew me away. I’m that easy to please. Put some effort into messages and I am so happy. These messages were in depth, engaging and he seemed to take a real interest in me. He asked me questions about modules I was studying and he seemed like a truly lovely guy. Physically he wasn’t my usual type, though at times once he had a pulse was type enough. He was thin, bald and a bit taller than me. It didn’t matter, his personality trumped and I was keen to meet. But life had other plans. Midterms took priority, endless word counts and petro-magic-realism took hold of my brain and wouldn’t let go. Would you believe he went to the effort of googling that topic, and chatting about it actually helped me with my essay. I didn’t like the topic but the fact that this guy was willing to google it just so he could have a conversation about the oil companies meant a lot to me. He was supportive, called me “intelligent” and said he found it attractive and most importantly he did not once mention his dick. He was a great distraction during an incredibly busy time.

The winter months had begun to creep in, the leaves were long gone from the trees on the walk up to the newman building and heavy coats and umbrellas had become a requirement. We began making plans to meet. A simple coffee to break the ice. I actually fucking hate coffee and I only ever drink it on dates and I’m always very mindful to watch them put in oat milk instead of cows milk so there isn’t a repeat incident of lactose intolerant cramps on the M50 in rush hour traffic. Thats another story for another day, or maybe not. I’m sweating just thinking about how the other drivers wouldn’t let me change lanes so I could turn off, find a toilet and apologise to whoever would be standing outside. He wanted to come to campus. He said he didn’t want me to go out of my way when I was so busy and though that seemed like such a sweet idea, my instinct was to say no. That was one of the better decisions I made with him. Ladies always listen to your gut.

I know why insomnia is called that. It would be impossible to sleep in that place. Its the most obnoxiously loud coffee shop I have ever had the misfortune to sit in. The generic music is too loud, the seats are uncomfortable and it and any of the others I have been in don’t look clean. Thats where we agreed to meet mainly because it was close to both of us. I have no problem driving to meet the right guy, jesus I’ve driven hours for the wrong one.

I spent ages getting ready. I was aiming for the ‘just got out of bed looking like this’ when in reality, I probably looked like a drag queen. My messy bun was just that and my smart casual outfit was so far removed from the bleach stained green bottoms that I felt dressed up. I felt nice. I ordered an overpriced cup of awful tasing liquid and sat and waited. I rarely get time to myself, alone time. Thats why I like to arrive early its not for the sole purpose of avoiding sweat stains. I really do like sitting on my own and watching the world go by.

It wasn’t the best location, I’ll be honest I kept the straps of my bag wrapped around my knee and double checked that my car was locked before I walked in. Some of the shops were boarded up and it seemed so far removed from the posh south Dublin campus. But I didn’t mind too much. I gazed out the window and watched cars driving by, quickly so their wheels weren’t robbed. I wondered if he knew the area and considered texting him when I noticed a guy on an E-scooter arrive into the car park. It was hard not to notice him. He wasn’t the usual yup bro dressed in a north face jacket with his hood up and matching black tracksuit bottoms. Nope. This guy was concerned about been visible to oncoming traffic and in his quest to be safe he dressed himself in a bright pink neon nike tracksuit with a matching baseball cap. Even his runners were bright pink. He looked like a sharpie highlighter. I smiled to myself and picked up my phone to check the time and when I looked up the highlighter was walking towards me grinning from ear to ear. No. No fucking way did I make a big effort for this.

I have never heard such a thick Dublin accent, not in real life anyway. It brought me into an episode of Damo and Ivor, twenty minutes earlier I had many Ivor’s walking around me and now here was Damo, cap and all.

“Alright Amanda!”

“Eh…Hi?” this cant be him.

“Are you?”

“Yeeeeaaahhhh it’s me sure didn’t i bleeding tell ya that I dressed a bit unconventional like” No. Thats not unconventional. Dressing like James Joyce is unconventional. You are dressed like a fucking drug dealer.

“What are you having luv?” Sweet jesus

“I’m fine thanks.” My luke warm coffee wasn’t going to get cold in my hands before I’d be out the door.

“Ha You’re accent is real posh ya know dat?” He chuckled as he walked, no strutted up to the counter. I needed to leave. I needed to get out but I had made the huge mistake of not telling anyone i was meeting this guy for coffee. I had nobody to SOS. I needed an emergency quicker than cows milk would run through my system. I text three people and I needed an instant reply. Those have now been removed from my emergency contact list. Fuckers.

He slides into the seat on front of me. He’s so thin that he’s almost transparent and I can’t stop staring at the colour of the tracksuit. It was coordinated so well it was almost like a onesie.

“So ya like the reading yeah? I’m not much of a reader meself if I’m honest.” Where the fuck is the guy I was texting. This lad is like a temu version of Nidge. Actually I’d lower that, euro giant.

“Em. I’m a bit confused here. In your texts..” I trailed off because I was so gobsmacked.

“When you were texting me. You seemed…..different.” Like capable of holding a conversation.

“Aw yeah..I got a bit of help.”

I just stared at him wondering why his jaw was moving from side to side in between sentences.

“Help from who?” A fucking probation officer I reckon and I’d much rather be sitting across from him now.

“Well dere’s dis ting have ya ever heard of it chatgbt its bleeding deadly. I just copy and stick in your message and it bleeding replies. I couldn’ write like dat.” Why didn’t I see it? How didn’t I see it? I picked up my phone and opened the messages and there plain as day were the familiar em dashes dotting the block of text and I just missed every single one of them. I thought I had been chatting to an educated, sweet guy when in reality I was chatting to a robot controlled by Nidge. Fuck my life.

“Listen, I don’t think…..what the fuck are you doing?” I asked him while he sniffed some coke off the top of his hand. The little bag, no bigger than a silica gel packet slipped back into his pocket. I always thought bags of coke would be the size of a crisp packet. I learned several things that day.

“Ah here I’m just a bit nervous.” My jaw sat on the table next to the pint cup of awful coffee and he registers the look on my face as something else completely and takes the bag back out of his pocket and says

“Oh. Sorry. Do you want some?” Do I want some cocaine? Actually do you know what I need something to wipe you from my memory.

“I’ll pass thanks. But I do need to go. I have to get back to the kids.”

“Can I meet them? I’ll throw the scooter in the boot and go with you?” No Nidge you cannot fucking meet my kids.

“Ah no. Its a bit early for that.” Now I’m very aware that this lad is probably on more than coke and possibly like a tinder box waiting to go off, so the last thing i want to do is offend him and set him off.”

“It was really nice meeting you and sure keep in touch.” You can keep in touch with the others in my blocked list.

“Ah here let me walk you to your car.” Fuck. I look out and the day is starting to die. Its not fully dark, but he is the last person I want to be in a dark carpark with so I stand up and begin to walk very quickly out the door and towards the car. I’m standing at the driver’s door ready to hand over the bag I had so tightly held onto 20 minutes earlier and I have my keys in my hand.

“It was really nice meeting ya and I didn’ wan to scare ya off by telling ya that I find big women just bleeding class.” Congrats Nidge you’ve moved into official cunt status. Cunt.

“Great. delighted. Makes my day hearing that.” He’s moving in for a kiss, eyes closed and lips puckered.I drop my keys and duck and all I can hear is a loud thud as he faceplants the car door. The noise echoed and he stumbled back holding his nose.

‘Jaysus Amanda me bleeding nose.” Yep. It was gushing, but I opened the car door and slid in locking it behind me.

“Will ya at least give me a lift to the oispedeal me nose is broke.”

“Jesus I would but I have a phobia. Thats why I’m not studying nursing. Chatgbt will give you directions.” I said as I started my engine and put up the window but the last words i heard from Damo-nidge’s mouth was a nasally “Heartless bitch” and I watched in the rear view mirror as he grabbed his E-scooter and with one hand still holding his nose he sped on to the nearest hospital.

Nothing is real. Watch out for the em dashes and for the love of God don’t accept cocaine over coffee.

My friend yesterday used a term “the audacity behind the screen” and that summed up online dating perfectly. I remember the late 90’s and early 00’s where you’d meet someone out, swap numbers and pray they’d text. Could you imagine if they behaved in person the way they behave online? There would be an awful lot of men walking up to a table full of women and just whipping their willies out onto the table on front of them. I can see the pride in their eyes, like toddler boys who just discovered that it gets hard at certain times. There would be men walking up to women in bars and saying “Hey! Do you like pegging coz I really like to be pegged.” That is literally a first message I got off a guy I matched with on tinder. That was his opening line. Dude just set up a profile on grinder and be done with it. Nothing online is organic, nobody wants to get to know the person behind the screen. In my experience they want to know how far you’re willing to go sexually before they want to know anything else. Or the one question that really gets under my skin, “What are you into?”. I don’t know Peter I’m into a man who has more emotional maturity than a penguin and I’m into personal hygiene. What does he want, a fecking instruction manual? Here are my lists of turn on’s and turn off’s. Is this too much work for you or should I just be ready when you call to the door? I’m even rolling my eyes as I type.

In my quest to be more open minded, I got chatting to Dave. FYI this seems to be a name they all pick when they want to fly under the radar. I’ve chatted to more Dave’s than there are legal Dave’s in existence. Dave seemed nice. There was nothing outstanding in his messaging but he seemed normal, there was no dick pics or talk of his within the first 24 hours so I kept the conversation going. We swapped numbers and began to slowly make arrangements to meet. Dave worked in I.T and owned a white van. (Honestly I’ll be smothered by a red flag at some point.). He was single, never married, no kids and was in his mid 40’s. He owned his own house and seemed to have his shit together. Dave sounded like a catch? The conversation kept going for about two weeks, we were trying to fit each other into our busy schedules and it was a little bit harder than I’d hoped but I was keen to meet him. He didn’t bombard me with texts and calls and his lovely Northern accent made him almost impossible to resist. He had a gorgeous deep voice and he probably could have said anything to me and I would have responded with “yes”. Or so I thought.

Late one night about three days before we were due to meet for our first coffee, the conversation took a turn, as it does. I’m definitely not opposed to it when it happens naturally. We started chatting about likes and dislikes and preferences. Then the conversation of fantasies came up. Up until this point it was relatively normal. There was nothing out of the ordinary and he seemed like a really nice guy. But I think this may have been a case of “Lets see where I can push this, how far will she go”

It started with a wedding dress fantasy. At this point this was not the weirdest I had heard, up to the point of been asked “Do you still have your wedding dress?” Believe me it swiftly went downhill from here. I read that text and honestly I had two thoughts, I could get into this role play because it certainly didn’t happen on the wedding night and wouldn’t it be a fantastic kind of closure on the whole “marriage” thing. I could get into this.

“I do, Its lying around somewhere in a ball, probably in the attic”

“Would it be easy to sneak out of the house?”

“Well its not a ‘big fat gypsy wedding’ kind of dress that requires 5 people and a trailer to transport it around.”

“I love your sense of humour.”

Flattery will absolutely get you everywhere in my case. Keep going with the compliments that I’ll never believe but want to hear anyway. Again, with the wise words of one of my bestest friends “trauma brings humour. we wouldn’t be so hilarious today if it wasn’t for half the shit we’ve been through.’ So I’m glad Dave was reaping the benefits of my miserable existence.

“I have a fantasy about a wedding dress.” he continued, I had sensed what he wanted and I had already made peace with the fact that it was going to get some fun use. But I didn’t want to seem too keen.

“Oh yeah. Do you want to share it.”

Firstly. I can’t begin to tell you just how wrong I was with my assumptions. If I’m honest I was a little disappointed and in the end a little bit offended.

“Well I have this thing where I wear the wedding dress as I’m been pegged.”

Do I sigh, eyeroll, scream at this point. I’m pretty sure my first sigh was so heavy it caused a small tornado in the local area.

“Right. Thats interesting.” It fucking wasn’t. But I felt there was more. There’s always more.

“The thing is. I’m a skinny guy. Do you think we could get it taken in?” I’m laughing as I type this. I laughed when I read the text. Was he calling me fat or was he so into dressing up that it had to be perfect and did he really think I was going to allow him to alter a 1500 euro dress for his own benefit.

“And I was wondering. If its not too weird for you (isn’t this already weird DAVE!!?) Could you call me Sharon while you do it?”

Insert Georgie Burgess putting a pair of knickers in his pocket and saying “A1 Sharon. A1”.

“Let me get this straight. You want to wear my wedding dress, while I peg you and call you Sharon? Am I right on this?”

“Yeah, is that weird?”

“A little bit Dave, just a little.”

“Alright well there is one other thing that I’d love to try. Do you know when we’re meeting for the coffee on Thursday?” Honestly Dave, I currently have about 6 sick aunties right now ready to kick the bucket, there will be no coffee but please keep going…

“What if I park the van up at the back of a carpark and you hop in and we have some fun before we get coffee?”

“You want me to get into the back of a van with a man I’ve never met for sex?”

“You make it sound so seedy.”

“Because it fucking is!”

“I don’t think you’re as open as you think you are tbh”

“Maybe you’re right Dave. Maybe you’re right. Hopefully some day you’ll meet someone willing to put her life at risk for mediocre sex. One way or another she’ll be disappointed.”

And it was there he blocked me. I do wonder did Dave ever say yes to the dress.

The weeks and months passed with Juliet becoming more and more down. Her mood was terrible and I was worried sick. The GP referred her to CAHMS and though I expressed my worry, all I got back was “It’s good for her to have friends. She says thats all he is.” and the thing is she’d say it with a smile, claiming “he understands me.” But I knew. I knew he was somehow behind the low moods and changes in appearance. At the time I didn’t know how I was so sure. Looking back I spotted the signs because I was living them too. I couldn’t escape but i’d make sure she would.

I needed to know who these people were so my first job as ‘Mother Detective’ was finding his address, which I did easily. I rang the police in his region and enquired over who lived in the house. The only thing the police officer would tell me was that he was 14. She was very sympathetic when I told her the story but the law prevented her from telling me anymore. My next step was to go into my local garda station to ask was this considered harassment. I was met by a brash, rude garda who told me to “Parent my child” as he closed the glass on my face. I felt as if i was getting brain damage from all the walls I was hitting my head off. You’re probably wondering why I just didn’t take her devices in the first place? Well we were still in some form of lockdown, I would have been isolating her from everyone but by that point I had no choice. I took everything and let her use my phone to message friends. Her mood started to lift and after a week or two she seemed to be regaining some of her colour. Life was beginning to return to normal. Romeo was gone. Or so I thought.

Romeo began to search for his Juliet. He was not giving up without a fight and his first step was to remove me from the equation. He may as well have put a silver bullet in a gun and shot it directly through my heart with what he done next. He called a Tulsa hotline and told them that his friends life was at risk. He supplied my phone number (Remember i had him blocked) and address. I got a phone call first. They wanted to know why I was limiting Juliets social contacts. I began to talk to the social worker and I spent an hour telling her everything, how I was bringing her to CAHMS in the hope they’d help her see sense, the Dutch police, the gardai and nobody was listening, nobody was helping and like that this beautiful woman at the end of the phone heard, believed and understood. The silver bullet was on its way back to The Netherlands. She called to the house the following day with a man who was equipped in dealing with online relationships and I felt as if Romeo had now given me an army. We spoke to Juliet, she seemed happier than she had been in a while and began to explain how Romeo was a little controlling, even from countries away. But she now had support and life would be good again.

Juliet was shy, an introvert and rarely left the house unless she was invited. Two days before her brothers birthday and after Tulsa has more or less closed off the case, she wanted to go for a walk. Alarm bells should have rang but I thought it was a new her. A breath of fresh air would be good, I asked who she was meeting, she said it was just a walk so I handed her phone over and said “ring if you need me.” That call came two hours later…..

“Mam. I need you.” I could hear an air of something different in her tone, not quite fear and not quite panic but a mix of the two.

“Where are you?”

“I’m across the road from the hotel. Mam. Romeo is here.” My stomach dropped and I grabbed her shoeless brother and strapped him into the car. I sped down the town as if she was on fire and I needed to put it out. I rang the social worker almost screaming “He’s here. He’s here! He came over. what do i do?” and skidded into the carpark behind them, hopped a tiny hedge and there he was, sitting on a bench next to my Juliet, smiling at me. I looked to Juliet, “Get in the car now.” and then I looked to him.

“Who are you here with?” I prayed he somehow ran away, that I’d be calling his father and trying to find a way to get him home. I wanted that to be the truth.

“My dad brought me.” My blood turned colder than ever. Why would a father bring his son to a different country during lockdown to meet a girl. This didn’t feel right.

“Tell your dad to meet me in that pub at 6pm.” I said, pointing across the road. Romeo nodded and I brought my kids home and locked the doors. I had no words. I couldn’t even muster up the strength to ask Juliet how this happened. I waited for their dad to come home and i went to meet Romeo’s father.

He looked like his picture. His grey hair framed a cold, harsh, lined face. His eye’s had no light behind them and I did not like the aura this man had. I felt dirty in his presence, as if I was been infected by something.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing blindsiding me like this? Not only do you ignore my wishes to cut down on their contact but you fly half way across the damn world to do it.”

“My son wanted to meet your daughter.” That was it. That was the explanation with a shrug of the shoulders and nothing more.

“Can you not see how crazy this is? They’re 14”

“I would much prefer to speak with her father rather than an emotional woman.” that was my cue to leave. I knew I wouldn’t get through to this man and I didn’t want to spend another second in his company. I left without uttering a word and I went home. There was two cars in my driveway and when I walked into my kitchen I was greeted by two detectives from two counties over who investigated online grooming and my world began to fall apart even further. They asked permission to speak to Juliet and asked her one question “Were you invited into the hotel room?” That thought hadn’t even entered my head and when her reply was “yes. But I didn’t go in thats when i rang my mam”, the room span.

“Do you know we’d be having a completely different conversation with your mam had you gone into that room? What stopped you?”

Tears were falling silently down my cheeks as I realised the extent of the issue as the female detective explained to her that her gut feeling saved her life. That she was always to listen to it, how she done the right thing by calling me. A conversation I had had with her before but a general one, hearing it from a detective hit harder for both of us.

They bagged up every device that Romeo had messaged her on to be sent to forensics and sent a squad car to sit outside the B&B where they stayed.

“Take her money off her, hide her passport, lock the doors and get away for the next few days if you can. If you can’t we have the local station notified that if they get a call from this address then they are to respond within seconds. We can’t arrest them as they legally aren’t doing anything wrong but we will recommend to them that it’d be in their best interests to leave the country.” the male detective said across the table. The room kept spinning and I realised I’d never offered them tea. What a foolish thing to think during all of that. I was a bad hostess.

I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes I imagined her not getting the chance to say no. I imagined the worst possible outcome of everything and it played on loop in my mind until it was all I could see, all I could feel. I checked on her multiple times throughout the night and when she eventually did sleep I noticed how small and young she looked. Her pale, unblemished skin was so close to been touched in the wrong, way by the wrong person, at the wrong time and I convulsed on the landing. I sat on the floor between her room and her brothers room because more scenarios joined the ones that were already there and that night I felt as if both of my children were in danger. I sat on the striped carpet between the two bedrooms until the dawn chorus began and the sun began to rise. I sat there the next night too while their father snored throughout the night and there I stayed until I got the call on day 3 that they had caught an early flight and left.

An international child welfare case was opened for Romeo. They knew he was groomed by his father to chat to young girls. They asked for pictures they never got and used a level of manipulation that wasn’t normal for a 14 year old boy. Romeo was in danger too. Selfishly I couldn’t see beyond my own four walls. I didn’t want to, I couldn’t fit another person in to my ever expanding list of worries and I didn’t want to know any more so I haven’t been told. I don’t know what the overall outcome was with Romeo, but I do know that a piece of me was broken during that time that was never found. It was as if Romeo’s father reached inside me in the pub that evening and stole something. It left on the plane with them. I still don’t know what exactly it was. I just know I have never felt whole since.

They were both 14. She had just celebrated her birthday and he was a few months later. These two incredibly shy teen’s connected via fortnight and I don’t think they even spoke to each other beyond a “hey” for the first two or three days. But they connected in a world that was closed down and suddenly they didn’t feel so alone. In the noise between gaming they began to chat, get to know each other and after a few days my daughter sat beside me on the couch and said “I’ve made a new friend”. She looked proud and happy. I looked out the window towards the empty green, the goal posts had grass growing high around them and footballs that lay deflated, much like our sense of hope at the “new normal” and I asked “Where?”. She, like every other teen during lockdown, hadn’t left the house. “Fortnight. His name is Gavin. He’s 14 too. Well almost. Oh and he’s from Holland” She said beaming and my stomach dropped. At the time I didn’t think it was a bad feeling for any reason other than impending heartache might be coming her way. The best case scenario would be that she has made a friend whom she can play online with, worst wasn’t anywhere near as bad as what actually happened and had I known, had I even the slightest inkling I would have unplugged the wifi there and then and disconnected the relationship before it even began.

The day rolled into each other. I remember that summer as been similar to this one, sunny days where my son ran around the back garden in bare feet. Paddling pool’s were blown up and left to sag when boredom kicked in and a lot of time was spent on screens, for all of us. It was phones, monitors, laptops, tv’s because that’s the only connection we had with the outside world. School was online, friendships that had been newly formed in 1st year were holding on by fine threads in second year thanks to screens, her first ‘all nighter ‘ with her friends was done via instagram. They had each got their own treats, pringles, chocolates, fizzy drinks and each in their own room set up a multi person call on instagram and though it was lovely to hear laughter coming from her bedroom, it was also incredibly sad to see her actually sitting there alone and connecting through a phone. But they say kids are nothing if not adaptable? They found their ways and it worked for them. I went to bed that night hearing loud whispers and laughs that couldn’t be subdued bouncing off her bedroom wall and it felt as if i had a full house again. I ignored the grumbles from the Jack Russell, the small barks he let out until they turned to angry growls. I ignored him because she was happy. I ignored him but at the same time silently prayed that they’d all fall asleep at a reasonable enough hour so he wouldn’t be in bad mood the next day. It was harder to ensure his sourness didn’t affect the whole house when everyone was still in it.

With the normality of screen life, Gavin too became normal. She would walk in the door with her phone in her hand and 9 times out of ten Gavin was on the other end. His brown eyes shining out greeting me as soon as they arrived in, “Hey Mandy, what’s for dinner?” he’d ask as I stood at the hob and though it was funny at first, cute even, it became a concern. I treated Gavin as if he were a real life friend. I asked about his parents as if he lived in the estate behind us and became like a bloodhound until I had one of his parents numbers to contact if I needed to. He was cute, if someone was to pull him out of obscurity and place him in a boy band he was the perfect fit. He had thick brown hair, cut into a short fringe, huge brown eyes and he looked like he was of Asian decent. He was polite, mannerly and if they were a little older he seemed like he would’ve been the perfect first boyfriend for your daughter. But something didn’t fit right. In the many conversations I had with Gavin he was always so elusive about his mother. He had no pictures, she never seemed to be around and he didn’t talk about her unless asked. He lived with his mother, father and little sister but I have never seen the mother or little sister. It just seemed to be Gavin and his Dad. I don’t judge, every family is different and I tried to content myself with the fact that maybe he was embarressed to tell me that his Dad was a single parent. Looking in we seemed like a fairly perfect family. In fact, it was Gavin that showed me how we were the furthest thing from it.

I had Gavin’s Dad’s phone number saved in my whatsapp. It’s still there except now it lingers in the blocked contacts with guys who sent dick pics years later. His picture is still there unchanged after five years and every so often he’ll appear under ‘people you may know” on facebook. Once or twice I clicked into his profile, nothing added, nothing changed, making me wonder, is he serving time in prison? I never wanted to know at the end of it all.

The schools opening in March quickly gave way to the summer months and the world beginning to reopen. I was planning a party that I wasn’t even sure I wanted and I could see in the corners that my daughter wasn’t herself. She was loosing a brightness, a quiet sparkle that she hadn’t yet harnessed was dulling and she seemed happier in her room. It was if she had been institutionalised during covid and the world was bad and scary. Returning to pre covid life and hobbies didn’t come easy. But every time I tried to chat with her she was never alone. Gavin was there. He had taken to texting me to tell me she wasn’t feeling herself, or calling me in the mornings to make sure she was up from bed and he had become relentless. I had to block him from my phone but he remained on hers. He was now a virus on every single device and I had to become the software to remove him.

During the tour we made our second visit to Belèm. I didn’t have the heart or the energy to tell Carlos we had already been there so I sat back and enjoyed been driven around. He pulled up beside the monument of the discoveries and I realised that though we had seen Belem tower and went on the sunset cruise, we hadn’t actually seen this spectacular momument up close and it was breathtaking. Carvings so clean they looked as if they were modern day sandcastles. Carlos brought us over to the mosaic map of the world and there a small island was mentioned for the second time in my life, Macao. This was under Portuguese rule until 1999 and its where my story with Tom ended.

I had started waking up at 6am excited to see the messenger notification knowing another instalment of Tom’s story was there. I can remember the last one as if it is still on front of my eyes. The quiet mornings before the kids woke up belonged to me, belonged to the woman in the stories who was been whisked away to spend time with a man who seemed to really want to be in her company. He looked at her, he talked to me about books, politics, art and he wanted her physically. He wanted to kiss her, touch her pale skin and embrace her in ways that she hadn’t been not in years, but ever. For five minutes every morning I allowed myself to become her as if i was reading a novel written just for me.

Macao was the destination of our last encounter. He described watching a woman navigate the busy markets of the city, watched as her pale skin stood out and as he was making her way over to her spotted two pickpockets about to steal her bag. He was her knight in shining armour. I still remember how he ended it. He switched from third person narrative to first and thats when I knew this was possibly more than a story to him.

“Macao was part of the Portuguese empire until 1999, it is no longer attached. That is how I feel.

Your turn.”

I had two thoughts, one was I hadn’t written in years and shit, he’s telling me he’s not attached and I realised in the very few, short conversations that were had between stories it never came up. I never asked because I didn’t see it as anything other than what it was, stories. Maybe I’m kidding myself here, maybe I’m not been honest about the full intensity of my feelings towards him or the stories he told and maybe I’m not ready to fully accept it yet. But I had to be honest. He needed to know that whatever that was was never going to go beyond the point that it was at and why but I wanted my reasons to be in story form.

I was making the bed, changing sheets and duvet covers as the words started to form in my mind. I lay down on a freshly made bed and began to type;

“She was tethered, bound like a Lotus foot constricted by necessity.” and it was here I told the story of a woman who had two kids that she loved more than life itself and was married to a man who didn’t look at her in the way he did. It was in writing this short story that I realised just how miserable I was. The things that were so abnormal within the relationship were normal to me and shouldn’t have been. It was typing out the story in a third person narrative and hitting send to a stranger across the world that helped me see things for what they were. In doing this my life changed in ways I could have only dreamed of.

Tom responded to the message with an emoji and one reply.

“You need to leave” and I never heard from him again. I used to click into his profile and be greeted with a picture that said “taking a social media break” and there it remains to this day. When Tom left I grieved. I grieved for the stories, for the woman who felt loved and wanted but something within me was unlocked. I began to write. I began to write ‘One for sorrow’ and Jane was born.

I firmly believe everyone comes into your life for a reason. Some don’t stay long but help guide you or teach you some kind of lesson and I believe that of Tom. I wish I could tell him how he helped transform my whole life with his stories, I wish I could hug him, thank him and apologise to him because I never meant to lead him on. I hope he’s happy and he’s walking hand in hand through the markets of Macao with his pale skinned woman.

He set the scene, created a love story written from the male POV and it began with him spotting me from a distance. Let me tell you dear reader, I am not any of the things that he described. Even though I was at my fittest back then I was not “athletic” but it was a word he used quite a lot. It made me feel like a fraud but it also helped me feel that no part of this was real. They were just stories. Another word he used quite regularly was “beautiful”. Most days I avoid a mirror. There isn’t one in my bathroom where I brush my teeth, there is barely one in my bedroom when I’m trying on clothes and the one in the downstairs bathroom I call the “truth mirror” because that fecker will show everything, so needless to say thats avoided like the plague. This morning while looking in the hotel room mirror I saw red marks which are turning into deep lines from where the cpap mask sits at night to keep me alive, black circles under my eyes from pure exhaustion(thank you twentyone pilots) and boobs that have dropped about 5 foot in what feels like weeks. I don’t feel beautiful, I never did. I had an ex that pointed out every flaw and created new ones that never entered my head. But Tom called me beautiful in his stories. He called me beautiful in the very short messages in between the stories and pair that with the changes in my body from exercise, I was beginning to feel a little bit more confident.

His first story was set in Chicago. It was typical man sees woman, man approaches woman, they have a drink and begin to realise they have lots in common. Tom’s stories never got sexual, it hinted at it but they never got graphic, which is why at the time I didn’t think anything was wrong in these interactions. I was just reading stories where I was one of the characters. With each installment we moved to a different city. Rome was described in such a way that I want to see the sun setting across the Plaza, where it looks as if its on fire. I want to see the Old Town Square in Prague with its hundred spires. I want to visit Frankfurt. These are all the places this man brought me in the space of a few weeks. These places I could only dream of visiting, let alone visiting with a man who considered me beautiful. For a few moments every morning I escaped the everyday where I felt less than and unappreciated to a faraway land where the opposite was true.

Read more

The phone calls turned into spontaneous invites, Coffee in random coffee shops, walks along the canal in Kildare where he picked wild flowers and hand them to me as he told me his dream of opening a coffee shop on a barge, or living on one. “Would you live on a barge?” He asked as we strolled hand in hand. I was so used to been agreeable in case my ex threw a fit but I thought about my answer and replied “Fuck no! It’d be too small, too cold, too much extremes”. I couldn’t reply with, Water makes me feel claustrophobic because it feels as if I have nowhere else to run. Ive run out of land and I can either drown literally or return home and drown figuratively. In a way, waiting for divorce proceedings and trying to keep some normality for the kids was making me feel as if I was underwater. But Justin became the breath of fresh air and I was loving every moment with him. But something was missing. Something I hadn’t has in a long, long time. Physical touch. James Joyce he was not.

Justin allowed me to share dreams that didn’t involve surviving divorce, not actually murdering my ex and burying him under a shrub and living happily every after. He knew that i still lived with him and I was amazed at how open minded he was, he didn’t question that I was been unfaithful and didn’t pry. I didn’t volunteer the information either. But he did ask me what dreams I had one night over a few drinks and a game of pool in a random pub in Blanchardstown. I kicked his ass by the way! Several times over. I wore heels, skinny jeans and a nice fitted blouse. I felt different that night, I felt slightly more confident than usual, maybe it was due to the fact that I had the gorgeous Justin by my side. I told him I dreamed of some land in the country, a little cottage on a hill overlooking fields. I’d live in the cottage happily with my kids and I’d open a writers retreat. A place to go where the only noise was birds and the wind blowing through the long grass. I imagined a row of cherry blossom trees lining the drive up to the cottage and pink petals covering the dusty road on a warm day. I let the dream take over the moment, I closed my eyes and watched as other writers found their own peace within the grounds of this place I created just for us. When I opened my eyes Justin was leaning his face against the pool cue and smiling broadly. “Nothing changes if nothing changes.” He said and moved to take his shot. He seemed drawn in to this idea I had and had lost interest in whatever silly bet we had made. “Its possible you know. There’s no reason why you couldn’t do this. I’m an accountant, I could help.” My best friend will tell you that I’m not the most logical of people, I don’t stay grounded for very long periods of time and Justin with his excitement for my writers retreat swept me up. “We could give cookery classes and art classes too! It doesn’t just have to be writing, it could be an artists retreat! I could help!!” I had never met a man who was so supportive. We chatted until closing time, and were the last two leaving the pub. When we sat into his car Justin pulled me in and kissed me for the second time. Yes ladies and gentlemen, the second time. In my quest to find romance, where dick pics and videos are considered red flags, Justin’s lack of them was a major red one. I thought that night would have been the night. We were close to his house, or so I was told, but no. He drove me back to my car and we parted ways. I spent the 40 minute drive home replaying conversations, the flirting, the subtle touches. Every interaction felt perfect, we were getting on like a house on fire but why didn’t he want me physically?

I let this question consume me to the point that I had ignored other things. I had never been to his house. He had promised home made meals, nights in on the sofa, mornings cuddled together. He had talked about them at lenght but 4 months in these were becoming empty promises. In the whirlwind that was Justin he swept me up in dreams and possibilities. He made gave me hope for a future outside of divorce and seemed to genuinely get excited for the things I was capable of doing. No other man had made me feel like that. His excitement was infectious, to the point I started looking at university courses while he was sending me links to grants for new businesses and how to apply for them. He would of course help and manage accounts. Do you see where this is going? I promise I didn’t.

One evening we sat in a coffee shop in Dublin. His favourite one over looking O’Connell street and we chatted as people rushed past, even on a Sunday evening the city seemed rushed. There wasn’t a person who seemed to be taking it easy, rushing from one part of life to the next but in those hours with Justin, time seemed to stall for us. I was honest. I told him what home was like, I shared my ideas of going back to college and excitedly told him that I’d like to have some kind of qualification before going into any business idea. I had a lot to learn, I had been a stay at home mother for a long time and I needed to spend time working on myself first. He said he understood, he grabbed my hand and said he admired me. But there was a shift in his aura, like a balloon that had been popped and deflated. Maybe I had found someone to share a dream with? Maybe this idea was meant to be, but if it was waiting a while wouldn’t matter. We drove back to Navan and Justin had lost his golden retriever energy and that was the very last I had heard from him.

Texts went unanswered, blue ticks never appeared beside them, calls went straight to voice mail and Justin was gone with no explanation. I searched for him on social media but he had always said he hated it and avoided it so i knew I’d never find him, but I looked anyway. He vanished. I was devastated, obviously not for the wild sex we had been having but because of the fun he brought to my life. He was infectious with his excitement, he was spontaneous and I badly needed someone like that. I missed him with each day that went by. My phone became like a paperweight without him constantly calling but life moved on. Life got busy. I got offered a place in UCD and I moved out of the family home without giving Justin a second thought.

Two years passed by, tinder and plenty of fish were becoming more disappoing with each swipe and every now and then Justin would pop into my head. It was all so strange, I had experienced ghosting since but something about Justin’s felt odder than the usual. One night I sat scrolling and an article from a local paper showed up on my google newsfeed “A conman, living in Meath, wanted for taking money for accountancy work found following appeal on crimecall”, I clicked into it and Justin’s image appeared before my eyes!! His name wasn’t Justin obviously but there he was, heavier and with a receding hairline standing outside court. He had worked as an accountant and charged for work that wasn’t done. All of a sudden the links he was sending me for grants made sense, his promises of helping me manage the imagined retreat were nothing more than to line his pockets while everything would be in my name. I was floored. I laughed because I wondered did he think I had money, was he hanging around in the hope that I’d get a settlement in the divorce? I laughed because I felt as if in some way I had scammed him. I hadn’t told him exactly how broke I was at the time. In my desire to keep the misery to myself he hung around full of hope and I was the one who had disappointed the scammer. Thats the positive spin I’m putting on it because to look at it any other way will have me filled with sadness. In one sense the fact that Justin didn’t want anything physical made me feel as if he really liked my personality, that he enjoyed been in my company and that felt good. I enjoyed it, but my God I dodged a bullet with this man.

There was no whirlwind in this one like James and Nora, yes we had the walks around the city hand in hand. But thats where the similarities begin and end.

It started on the app, quick, witty and sometimes just hilarious replies that made me laugh on Sunday morning as I lay in bed. He was intelligent and funny and that mattered more to me than a Zac Efron before the plastic surgery lookalike. If my brain is engaged, my body will follow. His explanations for having no pictures made sense to me. “If anyone at work seen them, they’d rip the piss forever and a day” He said when I asked. “In fairness, I’d do the same myself so I’d expect it” he followed up. We Irish are piss takers. There is nothing sacred and an Irish man looking for love, or even the ride is low hanging fruit. My morning passed by very quickly, I felt as if I had company. I’ve never been a fan of Sundays. I’d look out my window and see couples hand in hand or families walking to the pub for Sunday dinner while I often felt like Cinderella, I cooked, cleaned and made sure everyone else was enjoying their day off while I prayed for it to be over quickly and I could enjoy some quiet time on Monday morning. Even now Monday is still my favourite day of the week. It feels like mine. Justin stayed in my phone until late into the night. The texts raging from funny to flirty and back again and just as I was about to send a goodnight text he said “I think I have found what I’m looking for here, here’s my number. I’m going to delete my profile.” I’m not going to lie but I swooned. That, sadly was the nicest thing anyone had said to me in years. I quickly sent him a goodnight text on WhatsApp, where there was still no picture and I fell asleep smiling and holding on tightly to a pillow.

Over the next few days the conversation began to fizzle out, the sharp replies became slow, minutes to reply turned into hours and I began to lose hope. But life raged on, school runs were still there, dinners had to be made and I still lived with my ex (damn housing crisis) and its possible he didn’t want to involve himself in the mess that was my life. The hours turned into days and Justin was gone, until about 2 weeks later when he text out of the blue, “Hey, I’m guessing you lost interest, it’s a shame because I thought we were getting on well”. I had deleted the text thread to stop myself looking back over it to see where I had gone wrong so I was genuinely confused, had I ghosted him?? “oh my God No!! I’m really sorry, life just got really busy.” I was far too apologetic and keen. “Prove it then. Meet me this evening at 7pm”.

I looked in the mirror at my frizzy curls. That’s a lie, there was no curls just frizz. I glanced over to my makeup bag rotting in the corner and wondered could I even remember how to put makeup on. What would I wear? When was the last time I shaved my legs? Did I need to shave my legs? Did I have any underwear that didn’t have holes in them or ones where the elastic wasn’t coming free from the rest of the material? I know the day before I went to put on a pair of knickers and the elastic almost reached my neck while the rest just fell to my ankles. I had really let every part of me go. But that was about to change.

I pulled an ankle length red dress from the back of the wardrobe and tried it on. The ribbed material sat nicely, it was warm enough that I wouldn’t need a coat and I literally dusted off a pair of black heels that I pulled from under the bed. When I moved my stuff into the spare room heels were the last thing on my mind so I just kicked them under the bed and forgot about them. The shoes that I since packed into boxes first were like little parts of me, some worn, some bought with hope, some a reminder of the woman I was or wanted to be. Even now some still remain unworn but the time will come where I will slip them on with a nice dress. My makeup was pulled from the bag and with deep sighs I began to raid my daughters starter bag, penny’s concealer that I wasn’t sure how to use, bronzer, mascara and I hoped for the best. I began there and then to get ready. 5 hours ahead of meeting Justin.

I didn’t want to be late and sweaty so I arrived at 6.30 and ordered a coffee. I sat in the bar of the hotel watching the door every time it opened. I sit straighter and pull my stomach into my back, each time wondering how I was going to breathe when he walked in. The corner seat had a perfect view of the bar. I watched as regulars ordered pints of Guinness and chatted with the barmaid and I let my eyes drift to a muted tv hanging in the corner playing GAA highlights. “Bitter failed county players” he called the coaches in the texts and I laughed thinking of my ex roaring at kids from the sidelines like it was the All Ireland final. 7pm came and the door didn’t open, 7.15, 7.30. That line from Friends rang in my ear when Ross got stood up on his date “Do you think she came in, saw you and left?”. Maybe he was one of the older men at the bar, maybe he was actually married? I picked up my phone to check on the last text I sent him letting him know I was there and it hadn’t been seen. No blue ticks. I decided to wait until 7.45 and I was going to leave.

Just as I was standing up to go, the door opened and the air changed. A frantic man stood and looked around the bar. His eyes met mine and he smiled, I didn’t smile back as much as I wanted to because he was gorgeous. He walked over to me and said “I’m always late, even when I try to be early I’ll manage to be even later. It’s a horrible trait, but let me make it up to you. Do you want something to eat?” My idea of fun is not sitting across from a gorgeous man and shovelling food into my mouth. “No thanks, I’m happy with coffee.” I should have left. I should have walked out the door and never looked back.

The conversation flowed well, I laughed in ways I hadn’t laughed in years. I’d watch him as he talked, his perfect teeth, salt and pepper hair and big blue eyes and wonder what attracted him to me. I felt as if I was punching well above my weight and part of me almost felt, grateful. I was grateful that he chose me. Looking back I want to slap that version of me. I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her and tell her to pull herself together. But I sat lapping up the conversation that jumped from one topic to the next and back until closing time. When the clatter of cups and glasses from behind the bar got louder and staff began to sweep around us, I knew it was time to go. I didn’t want to, there was something infectious about Justins energy. He was fun and I desperately needed it.

The night sky shone with stars, even with the light pollution from the town I could see them twinkling over us as he grabbed my hand and walked me to my car. It was cold but I could still feel myself sweating slightly as I wondered and hoped what was going to happen next. “I can’t believe how quick the few hours went by” He said. “I can’t believe how late you were” I replied. He laughed, looked down at me and with our hands still connected he placed his free hand on my lower back, pulled me towards him and kissed me. My mind raced. I hadn’t kissed another man since before my ex and he hadn’t kissed me in about 7 years. I forgot how much I missed it, needed it, craved it and this was perfect. Justin was a great kisser. I let my mind go black and the feelings that were coursing through my body take over and I swear I would have let him take me there and then in that cold car park. He had more restraint than me, he pulled away and asked would I meet him again. Justin. The tall, gorgeous man who was dressed so well in a fitted shirt and chinos wanted to meet me again.

Subscribe now

Renaissance, rebirth.

Starting over can be the most liberating experience. Starting over with hair that now glitters, fine lines that won’t seem to ease no matter how much money I spend on anti ageing cream and a new way to date is terrifying. Tinder, plenty of fish, bumble, boo, fabswingers if your so inclined and as soon as I give up hope on one another fresher and newer app appears making promises that outshine the others and drain my bank. Im 42, divorced and depressed. I’m not depressed because I’m divorced, I sink low because I feel like I have missed out on a lifetime of fun. That doesn’t mean fun with random strangers but fun with one person who wants the same. The trouble is, I’m not even sure what I want. I’m hoping that there’ll be a flash of inspiration like when Michaelango began carving David, a man will appear on one of the sites and he’ll say all the things I’ve been longing to hear and suggest all the right things to do and that will be it. I can’t envision another marriage. I can’t picture falling back into the wife role easily, I think I’d have to be dragged into it kicking and screaming. But i do imagine nights in on the couch, nights out, laughter and intimacy that we just can’t get enough of. I think of trips away and sunshine, even getting caught in the Irish rain is enjoyable when its with someone you…dare I say the word love? Someone I remotely tolerate would be acceptable at this point.

1. Happy been alone?

The thing is, I am. For the most part I am loving been alone. But on certain occasions I sit back and realise that I feel no different now as to when I was married. I felt alone then. I never felt like I had anyone by my side. I’ve already met, married and left the human equivilant of a Jack Russell, the one who barks loudest because he’s smaller than the rest of the dogs. He nips at your ankles and at first it seems harmless. Its just a nip, right? But I have learned that Jack Russells can do unreal damage. It all seems small at the beginning, tugging at clothes, chewing the legs of the furniture, barking at strangers that come to the house. But over time the clothes are destroyed, the furniture is incapable of standing and visitors no longer call. Its just you and this needy, insecure little Jack russell who is content to only sit by your side on the couch and be fed three times a day.

I always said I wanted a dog so big that I could ride him into battle. I’m pretty sure i want the same in a man. But remove the word battle and replace it with ‘the kitchen’, because at this point I’m done with battles that inevitably lead to wars. My armour has been hung up, the weapons are in the attic and I just want the ease of good company.

In my search for that man I have joined the many dating app’s that promise I will delete them forever. I’m the comeback queen to most of them. I log on full of hope, spend weekends chatting and ignoring glaring red flags to ease boredom, a twinge of lonliness when the kids aren’t here and I swipe. When the reality of Monday morning school runs hit I realise that i have spent an eintre weekend entertaining men that didn’t deserve a swipe let alone a reply. I’ve spent countless hours sending out the best parts of myself and daydreaming about romantic trips to Italy, hand holding in France and skinny dipping in whatever country I’ve never actually been to. Truthfully its probably the experience of travel i want rather than a man farting in the bed next to me at 3am. Why don’t i just go? I think I will, I think I’ll at some point book that trip to Italy, visit Florence and see as much as it has to offer and wonder why I ever thought company would be a good idea. But there is some human longing deep inside me that won’t go away that tells me “I want to find my person” because I’ve never had him.

I have some stories to share…

Some are funny, some are bleak and some will have you looking at the middle aged man next to you snoring and farting and I promise you will look at him like he is a carving of David himself. You will thank your lucky stars that you’re not back on the dating scene and if you’re a man who is on the dating scene well maybe it’ll teach you something, hopefully to take a good long, hard look at yourself! If you are a man who might recignoise yourself in any of these stories, please feel free to sue me because any publicity will help and I need money for a solo trip to Italy!

Why James Joyce?

Well this is where my strange chaotic mind can pull threads together that probably don’t exist. When I decided to leave the Jack Russell I knew I needed some better career options so I returned to full time edcuation. I chose English with creative writing (I can hear you all laughing.) In my quest to find out what comma splices and the oxford comma actually were, James Joyce naturally came up. I instantly hated him. I refused to believe i would enjoy any of his work and the romantic in me prefered Yeats and likes to think if I was part of the educated Irish elite back in the day I would have been on the side of Yeats and Gregory in their quest to bring arts to Ireland and prove we wen’t the bafoons we were painted as. I loved Yeats mythical style of poetry that transported me back and sometimes kept me there for days. Enter Joyce and his honest portrayel of Dublin contradicting Yeats. How dare he?! Anyway in my sheer hatred for this man I went down a rabbit hole that I still haven’t emerged from and thats the rabbit hole of his relationship with Nora. Good ol’ “whorish” Nora and I felt instantly better about online dating. I know thats a strange connection to make, welcome to my brain but its one thats there and won’t go away. James Joyce wrote romantic letters to Nora that were 50 shades of grey style letters! I was amazed and lost in the filth that lay before my innocent eyes. I came to two conclusions, one been that maybe this is actully romance for men, the other is that men just haven’t evolved since the 19th century and we’re doomed. I firmly believe if James Joyce had access to a smart phone he would have been sending dic pics far and wide. (I can hear the shocked gasps from the local arts club ringing through my ear). Maybe there’s a sketch hidden in the archieves somewhere. Anyway, I think my point is; dating hasn’t changed. I get disheartened when the messaging turns sexual after an hour and think thats all the guy wants, in some cases it is and they’re upfront about it, but in the cases where they are looking for more is it the worst thing? While I think compatability is liking the same places to eat or genre of movies maybe they are onto something when finding out if we’re compatabile in bed. Theres nothing worse than been with someone a while and finding out that their idea of been adventerous is socks off and lights on. I’m not for a moment condoning some of the terrible behaviour I have witnessed first hand, Im not condoning gaslighting women into bed with promises of forever before ghosting and I’m not condoning low effort, but maybe this is a case of we view romance differently?

Here are some of my horror stories

I’ve decided to compile some of the horrific dates I’ve had into stories, some are funny, some will have you questioning my sanity and some are just off the charts with red flags that I thankfully seen in time, some I mistook for pink through my rose tinted glasses. As of now I’m still dating. Unless I meet a viking with a love for english literature, I feel I will be updating this on a regular basis.