Whittled down

This time last week, I was overwhelmed by choice and indecision. Now, there is only one.

First, there was L, the beautiful, puppy-fat-faced South African who just didn't have the heart. I tried calling her to end it, but she never returned my calls. When she finally did, I was eating (well I couldn't let my spaghetti get cold). So in the end we both just let it whither away.

Next came my ex, Z. We went for a drink and my new local, which seemed populated by a bevvy of leering weirdos and over-friendly bar-girls related to the aforementioned patrons.

If truth be told, I'd called Z when I was felling low about the time of my birthday. By the time we got round to making an arrangement, I no longer felt the desire to see her, but knew that I had no choice unless I wanted to fuck her around.

My best hope - I felt - lay with P. But despite holding hands, taking her out for dinner, and enertaining her with my witt, she's now told me once and for all that she just wants to be friends.

Which leaves J. I've only seen her pictures. She looks gorgeous. And in her e-mail banter she comes across as cheeky, yet reassuringly fresh. She's Israeli, which is a plus, and also bears my favourite girl's name. All my eggs are now in her basket. I hope she handles them with care.