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.

Dumped

I feel empty. I feel rejected. I feel alone. And I don't really know why. After all, I was hardly head-over-heels in love with P. So why do I feel so unhappy at being dumped by her?

I think part of it is down to its sudenness. I mean, only on Wednesday night I'd taken her out for dinner: good food, good company, no awkward silences and, okay, a £90 bill, but then I'd dropped her home, and she practically sucked off my tongue she was so eager to keep me in her mouth.

It was our first proper date. But we'd been out a bunch of times already: last Sunday she dragged me to an engagement party. She wanted to take things slow after our "something-but-nothing" from our initial encounter on Simchat Torah eve. "Let's get to know each other," she said. And that's what we'd done.

Today she came for lunch. I'd prepared everythign to perfection: the chicken was crisp; the potatoes golden; the filas moist. I noticed she seemed a little uncomfortable, uptight, even, at times (and I'm not referring to her using a knife and fork to eat a rugelach). But I was a gracious host, ensuring I didn't focus too much on old friends T and S, both of whom I'd professed my undying love to at various points in time, both of whom cause me to act like a 13-year old schoolboy with the giggles.

I think she perhaps felt intimidated by my friendship with them. Perhaps she found me too childish? Too keen.

Who knows? At least, I guess, it means I can look forward to L's return from South America without facing the dilemma of being unfaithful to P. Even so, now I have some time to think, and the effects of the wine I had for lunch has faded , I'd still prefer to be with P, than to be without.

Why is it me that's always the shit?

It had been two weeks since I'd had any contact with C. As far as I was concerned, it was over. But it wasn't.

At first, I was quite into C. She was pretty, slim(ish) and cheeky. We'd met at a friend's back-garden party where the highlight of the evening had been his sending an aflame home-made balloon into the night-sky to land goodness-knows where.

But after the midnight walk back to C's hotel in Israel. After the beach-front smooching. And after two lacklustre dates, I decided that she wasn't for me. "Do the
menchedick thing," my friend Alex said. "Call her and tell her."

So I did. I got her voicemail. I couldn't say what I wanted to say. Which meant the message still wasn't loud and clear. Just how muffled I found out last week.

"How r u stranger? x," she texted. Why, I'm not sure why. It had been a fortnight since we'd last spoken and three weeks since we'd been out.

I waited a day, and sent a reply of the sort I'd received on at least two occasions in the past year.

"I'm fine, thanks. Work's really crazy. Hope you are well. Take care." That should do the trick, I thought. Wrong!

The next morning, I switched on my N95. The submarine-ping of a text plopping in my inbox sounded. I opened it.

"Wow! Such a childish - not to say wankerish - way to end things," she wrote. "One tip: ask your rabbi what kavod means. Take care."

I was wounded. Shocked. Hurt. Confused. How on earth - who on earth - thinks that a) they're in a relationship after three dates and some tongue and tit action? and b) doesn't understand that there's nothing going on when they don't call for three weeks. And why is it ME that gets labelled a shit, when what I sent was nothing worse than any of the rejections I've been on the receiving end of? I don't like hurting people. And - perhaps even more so - I don't like being made to feel like I'm a bad person, which I'm not!

I wanted to tell her the only child in this text-off was her. But I didn't. I apologised. Told her I hadn't meant to upset her; that I thought she knew my heart wasn't in it; and that I wished her the best.

So far she's not replied. Which either means she's ignoring me (which is fine). Or that she understands that I meant her no harm. Either way, I don't want to be near her when she has anything sharp, or staining, in her grasp.

No wife, but possibly a house

For the past four days my head as been throbbing, my eyes have felt as if someone's bungee-jumping from my optical nerve. But yesterday I had a very good day.

Not only have the dictatorial directors of the company I work for decreed that hence forth we'll only have to work nine hours a day instead of the standard 10. But the flat I fell in love with two months ago, only to lose out to a higher bidder, came back on the market. I reiterated my bid, it was accepted and so it looks like I'm buying a new pad!

Meanwhile, I've arranged to meet up with J (who I thought was S) on Sunday. P should be back from Belgium with some chocolate/diamonds/Satmar socks. And now a nicely-polished American lass called D apparently has the hots for me (nevermind that I can't shake off the attentions of C, even though - or perhaps, because - I haven't bothered calling her in a month).

So feel shit in the head, but some sustenance for the heart. Lucky in property, unlucky in love, so they might say. But I don't see why I shouldn't have enough for both.

Confusion Reigns

For three days I had no idea what the hell was going on. But it's all clear now.

On Monday, my friend - and ex - A had called me to invite me to her newborn's circumcision. And to tell me that she's spoken to the girl we'd talked about; she'd be interested in going out with me; and would I like her number?

I was stunned. I'd fancied S for at least a month. Her sparkling green eyes, jagged scar running down her face from a near-fatal car-accident, and casual indifference to my presence were all unnervingly appealing. And she wanted to go out with me?

A gave me her number. I called the next night and left a message on her voicemail.

Wednesday night was Yom Tov - a Jewish holiday. It had gone 8pm when my phone rang, the vibrations on my on-Silent phone arousing me from my armchair and beckoning me to see who it was - even though, it being a festival, I couldn't actually pick it up. Much to my surprise, it was S - someone I'd only ever met in synagogue, and who I therefore assumed would be similarly averse to using electronics on a holy day.

The next night was Simchat Torah - Rejoicing of the Law. And a time-honoured excuse to have a piss-up in synagogue.

P - a sweet German who'd taken a shine to me - was there. As was S. I spoke to the latter for at most two minutes; I came close to asking if she'd received my message. I didn't.

Later that night, I walked P home; went up to her flat; smooched her and found that she'd had her already ample bosom reduced from its original might.

Next day, I attended a different synagogue. S was there again. We spoke some more; I even made her laugh. Again, I came tantalisingly close to asking her if she'd received my message - just as all my friends had advised. But I didn't.

Just as well. When the Sabbath finally ended on Saturday night, I listened to my voicemail. There was a message from a health insurer, my cousin and an estate agent, as well as one from J returning my call, but finding it weird that I'd called her "S". So as I'd suspected, S hadn't called on a festival. But who the hell is J?

I called. She answered. Said my friend had told her to expect a call.

"Ah," I said. "Thing is. I don't know who you are?...I thought you were someone else, and that's why I called you S..."

But fate can work in funny ways, I said. J suggested we meet for a drink all the same.

I called A to see what she was playing at. Apparently at lunch the previous week we'd spoken about two girls. When she called me on the Monday, though, and I'd asked her if she was sure we were talking about the same girl, she said yes. Turns out she wasn't.

But hey, being set up with the "right" girl has never worked in the past. So maybe things will work out better with the wrong one!