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I met a man in a pub one night and, civilities over, there was genuinely nothing to talk about. He got his own Americano and left me to get mine and talked for 20 minutes about the many times he’d seen U2 in concert.
Out on the pavement, he said: ‘It was good to meet you; good luck with it.’ We smiled and parted.
And there was Martin, with whom I had an inspiring email relationship, to the point that he was talking about us growing old together. He went cold and then admitted he was only just separated.
The hours would go by and I’d find it was tea-time and the dog desperate.
Ocassionally, I’d fend off approaches from the leg-over merchants who hadn’t even introduced themselves but sent out ‘how about it darlin’, you have sexy eyes; I bet you have squeezable thighs’ type of messages.
There were the daytime vodka-tonics to take the edge off grief’s sharp corners; there was ice cream direct from the tub while sitting with the blinds down, crying over property programmes - the whole Bridget Jones scenario.
As a part of believing in the future, what I wanted was something that seemed impossible: to fall in love again.