Bobby is hard for me to write about. At times, I thought of completely leaving him off the blog altogether, but then I wouldn't be doing my history justice. Friends of mine still wonder what the hell I was thinking when I took him back after the third time he dumped me (THREE TIMES!). I still don't have an answer for that.

I thought he could make me happy. Knowing what I do now, I'm determined to think that whilst we were dating and we did have fun, I was more keen on the relationships I was making with his friends than I was with him. He introduced me to my small town in Bedfordshire and I thought by losing him, I would lose everyone.

If only I'd realized then that my new friends liked me better. I struggled through an on/off relationship with Bob for 9 months, but during those months, I met Cathy, my dear fellow craft-crusader and a family of small-towners that will forever be in my heart. I didn't need Bob, even though he made me feel like I did.

He'd somehow managed to make me feel like I was always unhappy, and truth be told, I was, but didn't want to admit it. I was used to having to work in a relationship. I was adamant to not let this relationship fail.

Also, around this time with Bobby I was naive. I was very naive. A little word on immaturity in relationships (and I'm still figuring this one out) - when we are young we tend to think of love and happiness as an achievement that we are constantly battling to possess. After George, everyone was interesting and the next guy I was certain was going to make me happy and fulfilled no matter what it took. Honestly, I look back and just shake my head.

I credit it to not knowing how to be happy and to never being happy with myself. But I must say, that now that I'm older, I fucking love myself. I really really do. I don't give a shit if I sound big-headed or weird. I am an amazing woman. I've been told so on many occasions and I personally believe that while a man may find similar, he will never find better than me.

It's not arrogance. It's survival.
Where would I be if I were constantly dwelling over my faults (which are numerable)?

So, all this self-realization (borderline preaching) finally allows me to write about Bobby. I'm not going to dwell on the hardships we went through. They're not interesting. So here's how we met:

Having a job in London and living in the outskirts of Bedfordshire gave me two lives. In London, I was Tess McGill working hard for that corner office and keeping my life professional (or as professional as a single woman can be in the heart of England). In Bedfordshire, I was that small town girl. ‘The American’, since most people here only knew one. At home, I slipped back into my Southern drawl a bit. I was comfortable here. I felt at home.

But because it is a small town the company tends to be a little less diverse and it seemed everyone knew everyone, except me. And that went both ways. I hardly knew anyone and because I was with George for so long while living in England, hardly anyone knew me. So, getting into the singles scene with all new acquaintances was simply too easy.

Everyone inquired after this ‘new American girl’ in town. I was surrounded by people wanting to get to know me and I was all too happy to get to know everyone. My first two dates with Bedfordshire-ites were less than promising, but ever the optimist, I donned my best Friday night outfit (black skirt and black lacy top) and hit the town.

It was my new friend Katie that first introduced me to Bobby in early September.

Bobby was a friend of her sister’s and because her sister was so close in age they all went out together frequently.

I remembered the first night I went out with all of them I’d seen him and thought to myself that he wasn't very handsome, but I loved his name. Bobby Robins. It had a nice ring to it.

Bobby was tall with dusty blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He was wearing dark blue jeans and a light gray t-shirt and some trendy pointed shoes. For some reason I found him comical. He was always smiling and loved listening to other people’s stories. He had extremely good posture and talked with that very English accent you get out in the counties.

Ah yes, Reginald, I think I shall take tea today.

Capital, Charles, simply capital. I will tell the missus.

He was sitting just next to me and I kept leaning in to try to start a conversation. He spoke to his friend mostly and I kept trying to nudge my way in.

"Have you heard the new MGMT album?" asked his friend.

"Yea, it's great, I've got Electric Feel on repeat," I said - but no one heard me and Bobby kind of talked over me with his answer. His friend kind of caught on that I was trying to make conversation, but I wasn't sure Bobby could even see me at the angle he was sitting.

I felt like a total loser. Bobby and his friend talked for what felt like an hour and I just sat there, literally trying to nudge my way into the conversation by any means possible. I even put my elbow on the table and leaned really close to Bobby's outstretched arm. I realised as I looked from his shoulder to his hand that his fingers were enclosing around my gin and tonic. Whoa now! Mitts off my booze motha fucka! He pulled the drink to his lips and took a large swig.

“Oh, I’m sorry, but that was my drink,” I said in the most polite English way possible.

He swallowed the remainder of the glass and burst out laughing. Coughing a bit on the apparent hilarity of the situation. I was a bit miffed. I think I was looking a bit Scarlet O'Hara - very unamused with one eyebrow arching up.

I sat patiently waiting for him to stop choking and finally say, "Oh my, I'm terribly sorry. Please let me buy you another one." He gave me a big grin. "I'm really sorry. I had no idea you were even there."

Sigh, oh well. I never turn down a free drink and I was happy to get the chance to finally speak to Bobby Robins so I followed him to the bar.

I wasn't my usual self that evening. I was really nervous. I started talking about things and then forgetting where I was going with it and then making up the rest of it. I was just thinking to myself, lies... this is all lies. I'm vomiting lies! I think I told him I lived in Italy for a while. I've never been to Italy. What the fuck am I saying?!

He didn't seem to notice though and the music was really loud so I'm not even sure he could hear me. So, it wasn't too big of a deal I was blabbering complete and udder bullshit. I can definitely tell you that I could in no way, shape, or form make out a single word he was saying, except for the occasional, "You know what I mean?" In which case I would reply, "Yea, totally".

We spent half an hour "chatting" away and laughing about my travelling lies that we nearly didn’t get each other’s names. Well, I knew his, but he'd never been introduced to me.

I'd just drank my 5th gin & tonic and three is my limit (if I'd had a meal, which I didn't). So as I sloshed around the remaining G&T in the melted ice at the bottom of my glass I just simply smiled and giggled and batted my lashes and thought to myself. I wonder if I lean in closer he'll try to kiss me. So I kept leaning in as if I couldn't hear (which wasn't a complete lie), but I was conscious that I was leaning really really far, or at least it felt that way.

“Oh my, where’s my manners? I’m Bob or as most everyone here calls me Bobby.”

“Oh yes, nice to meet you Bobby” [sticks out hand] “I’m Josie.”

The way Bobby grabbed my hand, smiled, leaned in and said, "let's go have a seat somewhere... [raising his eyebrows] quieter," had me grinning ear to ear.

Butterflies, drunk goggles, a full glass of gin & tonic - extra lime - and a silly cheesey grin plastered on my face. I must have looked like a total sucker.

We looked for a table closer to the back but with the crowds of people gathering around to dance everywhere we had to abandon our mission for intimacy and decided to get back to the chatter of our friends.

I swayed between the tables and small stools to find an open one directly across from Bob. I was wearing my sexy black leather heels and the mini skirt made my legs look miles long on the short stool. I kept switching my crossed legs like that hot lady in a white dress in that movie in an interrogation room. I can't remember what it's called.

I was just doing my third switch and about to rest my elbow on my knee and do a little sexy eye contact action but I lost my balance.

I really lost my balance.

I fell off the stool mid leg cross and fell over.

When you're laying on the floor after a lot of gin two things come to mind.

Did anyone see that?

Answer: Yes

What do I do now?

Answer: Play it cool

Play it cool. Yea play it cool. I stood up pretended to dust myself off and took a bow. I got a couple 'wa-heys' but that wasn't so bad. I was mortified though. I'm pretty sure you could see my underwear. Oh God! I'm pretty sure I'm wearing the panda pants tonight.

...digressing a bit - I wear silly underpants. I do this because it's the best birth control I can think of - not that I'm some uber slut, but there's no way you're going to want to take your jeans off if you're wearing white britches with pink teddy bears on them. It's a fool proof policy and it works a charm...

I straightened my skirt a bit and give a bashful smile to Bobby. He moved to the vacant seat next to me and said "nice pants".

Date Time: Bobby Robins and I dated on and off for 9 months. Each dating session lasted 1-3 months.

Overall Appeal: For the name alone he got a 9.5, looks - 6, manners - 5, conversation - 3.

Would I date him again: Fuck no! 9 months of hell. He's a complete blow to the self esteem. I was so upset about the 2nd time he dumped me that I lost 10lbs - which coincidently boosted my self esteem. No regrets there, but no turning back either.

Goodnight kiss: that night no, and I remember it taking about 3 weeks after to finally get one.

Oh, and Bobby, if you're reading this, I know you know it's you. You're a fuckwit. I hope you have finally 'sorted your life out'. And just in case you're still not quite sure this whole palaver is about you - I hope you're happy with that bull-dyke you now call a housemate and your problems with erectile dysfunction. [insert grin]

Dominic & Internet Dating

One of my best friends met her boyfriend online and I have loads of friends who love to tell the stories of how so-in-so met so-and-so online and now they're married with a dog and nice flat, 2 kids, swimming pool, holiday home in Kent, etc.

So with that false impression and completely unrealistic mentality I logged on to gumtree, where not only can you buy used laced curtains for £.99, but you can find a husband… supposedly.

And since I was only looking for a date I figured I had nothing to lose, and possibly slightly more to gain.

Putting my own profile up never appealed to me. The thought of some old pervert (forgive me) wanking over my photo gave me the creeps. Nevertheless, I posted a nice conservative yet fun picture of myself from a night out and added a little bit about my silly self.

The replies came flooding in! I was shocked! But then I found out that most of them, although funny and personable in their replies, took it a step too far by adding a picture of their penis… yes people… I pretty much downloaded over 10 pictures of male genitalia. I immediately freaked out! As soon as the picture came up I closed and ran away from my computer. After clicking 'open' on the next few files I held my breath and closed one eye fearing that it may harness the next form of Satan on my desktop.

I decided to try my second strategy which was to look at other people's posts and then reply to those. Strangely, there are a lot of Indian princes looking for someone to spend money on. The thought of this did appeal to me. But I soon found out replying to those I just got more genitalia.

I finally found an interesting post from two guys looking for a couple people to chill with - specifically two people that didn't have a 'shed with spares'. I of course had no idea what this meant and felt inquisitive. So I sent over an email.

Dear 'SoulMatt256',

I'm here looking for someone to chill with too. From what I can see, I have no shed with spares so I believe I fit your criteria. My criteria is quite simple: must not be a serial rapist, extreme killer, fetish happy, fuckwit, dimwit, unemployed, live with parents, poor dental hygiene, poor hygiene in general, or have ever been referred to as a 'weird one' - although that last one is conditional.

Care to have a drink?


It turns out РDominic Рis Irish and loved my joke about the criteria (which had my alarm bells ringing, but I silenced them after I realised I was a bit OTT). He and his friend wanted two ladies to go out to dinner or have drinks with. The 'shed and spares' meant male genitalia of course. And after seeing that they clearly had no intention of sending me risqu̩ attachments, I replied that I have no friends to go out with (at this time most of my friends were already taken) but I'd be happy to go out for a drink or have dinner with you.

Dominic worked in London too so we decided it would be safest (neither of us were quite sure the other wasn't a serial rapist/aggressive killer) to go for a quick after work drink in town.

Ever since I watched The Quiet Man (one of my favourite films) I've wanted to date an Irish man. Don't judge me. I don't know why this strange obsession happened or why after years of it lying dormant in my bones that it manifested into a full blown date with a total stranger… but it did. And I was going on a date with Dominic McIrishsurname.

Okay… before we go any further let's talk a little bit about me. I'm brave. I'm sometimes too bold and should probably keep my mouth shut, but sometimes I am shit-scared. I'm not exaggerating. My mom once put me in a giraffe costume when I was about 11 for the church sing-a-long 'Noah's Arky'. At first I loved this spotted posterboard creation. I slipped on some black spandex pants, put on a zoo t-shirt and persisted to walk around the trees and pretend I was eating them and rubbing my belly. (There are pictures I was that happy about it!). But when I was 11 I was a bit chunky... well... the kids called me 'Tubberware'. So when the time came to go up on stage to sing I stuck my little neck over my head and then high-tailed it out of the church screaming with my long neck slowing me down as the wind caught it. So, no matter how brave I may think I am, I'm easily psyched out and will run at the slightest pinprick of fear.

And now, I agreed to go on this date with a perfect stranger and I am about to get murdered in some back alley of London. I can see it now

'Wow, this is a nice date. Yea, maybe it would be a good idea to go to drinks at this 'quaint little place he knows'.

BOOM! Dead!

That's what I was really thinking. That is why I texted (yes, I'm a coward) that I wouldn't be able to make it. I was feeling ill. Then I changed my phone number.

So I never went on that date. I'm so sorry to disappoint my readers, but I just chickened out.

Not to fear though. Dominic comes up again later and it's worth the wait to find out more to this story.