Back in the saddle again..

Trepidation. That’s what the gurgly thing in the pit of my stomach is. Can’t remember the last time I had a bonafide date date. An unknown quantity, this Frenchman, despite his accelerating particles and propinquity with Somya. Or perhaps its just the memory of the disastrous coupling that was her previous attempt at setting me up. Why is it always so much more discomfiting the first time you meet someone who’s less than six degrees away?

The whole expedition has me so nervous, I’m now actually contemplating paying up to read the messages from the 49 single men who’ve apparently sent me missives. Bet of those 49, 30 of them reside in the godforsaken, if beautiful home counties; 10 of them would be suitable for the end of a bargepole, leaving 9 local, readable profiles. A 25% success rate makes that 2 ¼ men I’d probably consider meeting. Sans stress. So, why am I wondering what to wear for this evening?? I’d really rather go skydiving. Although there too, I’m faced with ageism. Now that I’m 40, I need to produce a doctors certificate declaring me fit to be chucked of a plane, mid-flight. And it’s not even a solo jump! Cruel, cruel world! Guess I’d better ring the health centre to see if they’d oblige me, otherwise I wonder if I can coerce Jaaneman into faxing me one.

Actually, I’m a tad disappointed that it’s not a solo jump. The whole point was to see if I’d be any better at jumping off a plane with a chute strapped to my back as opposed to being shoved of a platform with a bungee cord attached to my ankles. For some obscure reason, I think the chute on back route will be easier, which is really bizarre given that it would be a free fall… but psychologically, your hands would be able to touch something. Come the 19th, we shall find out.

Thank god I’m seeing the Dutchman tomorrow! A sari should soothe my frazzled nerves...