I went out for dinner with Jayce last night. Was pretty un-eventful in that we didn’t have sex and that there wasn’t even much talking between us. He seemed preoccupied and didn’t appear to be listening to a word I said.

The evening ended so early that I still had plenty of time to catch my train and meet a few friends in a bar near my house before going home.

Still no word from BT, but I have another date tonight.

S is a work colleague of my best friend and we have dated in the past, but things have always fizzled out due to his chronic lateness.

The plan is to spend a few hours with my best friend (hereafter known as BF) shopping for new underwear and discussing tactics, before meeting S at the station and taking him home for a home cooked meal and a DVD.

Wish me luck!

My mum rang me today to tell me that my 21 year old sister had run away from home, taking with her a bag of clothes and a frozen pizza.

“Mum, she’s 21. It’s hardly running away from home when you have been legally allowed to leave for years.”

“I know.” My mum sobbed. “But she doesn’t even like pepperoni!”

Due to technical difficulties, I have been a bit slow on updates this week.

I try to keep blogging at work to a minimum for obvious reasons, so haven’t been able to include any updates.

Plus, I have been quite busy with Jayce arriving back in the UK at last ;)

I met Jayce at his office straight from work on the Friday of his return.

Usually, his PA shows me in, but this time Jayce was waiting for me with a bottle of champagne having sent her home early.

I don’t why, but I felt quite shy seeing him again after a two week gap and had expected things to feel different somehow, but the awkward feelings dissolved after a few glasses of champagne.

“I missed you, you know… That’s why I got you this..”

He said, taking a large, beautifully gift wrapped box from his desk draw.

I carefully undid the ribbons and opened the box to find the most beautiful, delicate silk underwear I have ever seen.

For a moment I was speechless.

“It’s beautiful!” I gasped, not quite knowing what else to say.

“You can show me how much you like it later. I’ve booked us a table for dinner, then a hotel for tonight. I don’t have anywhere to rush off too, so we could spend the whole night together. That is... Unless you have somewhere you have to be?”

We hurriedly drank the last of the champagne as Jayce called downstairs for a cab.

As I gathered my things, a few thoughts ran through my head.

How was Jayce able to find underwear in a DD in Japan - country of notoriously small breasted women? (Maybe bringing me back sushi would have screamed fake business trip?).

Why on his first night back, was he not obliged to return home and spend the night with his wife?

But, it wasn’t my place to ask these questions. I should know by now what I am getting myself into.

But all the same, it made the champagne taste a bit sour.

The next day, we woke up, ordered breakfast in bed, read the papers, and then got cabs back home to our respective lives.

It was nice. For a moment I had a taste of what having Jayce to myself full time would be like.

Truth be told, he did annoy me a little. It turns out that he is a very selfish sleeper, the kind that sleeps starfished across the bed and takes the entire duvet in the night. Plus he snores.

I arrived home feeling rather empty. Whilst he would be arriving home to a hero’s welcome, all I had waiting for me was Figaro, my cat. And even he wouldn’t care if I fell off the planet as long as his bowl stayed topped up.

When I got home, I had just enough time to tidy the house and pop to M&S to get some food and wine for dinner before I had to start getting ready for my date with BT.

I had invited him over for dinner and a DVD, which I hoped still meant what it had meant in my day. Especially as I had spent three times as much on underwear and new bed sheets as I had on the food.

BT was late; throwing off my timing completely which meant that not only was the food cold, I had drunk an entire bottle of wine to myself.

It also gave us just enough time to dash to Blockbuster and grab the first thing off the shelf (Hostel – for the love of god, save your money people).

We got back in and I re-heated the food and offered him a glass of wine which he declined, saying he was only going to drink soft drinks tonight.

We watched the DVD and spent most of the night talking and laughing. When I looked at the clock I was shocked to see that it was already 4.am.

“You better go” I said. “It’s getting late.”

“I could stay the night?” he suggested.

I pretended to think over the idea whilst secretly dancing inside. I located an old pair of shorts my brother had left behind years ago for him to sleep in, and frantically txt my best friend when he went to the bathroom to get changed.

“Ur not goin 2 get any. Give up now” She txt back.

Ignoring her, I slipped into a silk cami and shorts set, and draped myself seductively (so I hoped) on the bed.

BT came back from the bathroom and seemed oblivious that I had even got changed. He suggested we put on another DVD.

At 6am, we still hadn’t kissed and I had just about given up hope of anything happening, especially as he kept nodding off.

I turned off the TV (the lights having been turned off ages ago of the pretext that it’s better to watch horror films in the dark), and was just starting to drift off to sleep, when he kissed me!

We kissed (very chastely I am disappointed to add), for a while before I really had to go to sleep. I didn’t see the point in staying awake past 7am for first base only,

The next morning I made breakfast, we drank tea in bed and talked and laughed some more until he left at about 3pm.

I had just closed the front door and gone upstairs to make the bed, when I got a txt from him:

“I had a really good time last night & hope we can do it again soon. When r u free nxt?”

I replied telling him that I was free the following weekend, but he didn’t txt back.

Three days later, and he still hasn’t txt back! Where did I go wrong?!

I was woken up this morning at around 5am by my mobile phone ringing. Normally I can't be bothered with anyone who calls at such an unsociable hour but it had been two weeks and I was hopeful..

"Hey baby it's me. I'm in a cab coming back from Heathrow, whatyadoing?"

"Sleeping" I replied rather grouchily. What else did he expect me to be doing at 5am (was this another test to see if I was engaged in sexual aerobics in his absence?).

"I see I've called you at a bad time. I was just wondering if you are free tonight for dinner?"

I mumbled a reply before hanging up and falling back to sleep.

When my alarm woke me up again at 7.30 I wasn't sure if I had dreamt the whole thing and had to check my call list to see if I had been dreaming.

I went on another date with BT last night but have nothing of any interest to report. it seems that dating a nice guy is actually a bit boring as there is never any juicy gossip to report back. We went to a bar and drank Mojito's all night.

Jayce coming back has left me with a dilemma. Do I tell him about BT? And more importantly, do I tell BT about him?

Went to the toilet only to find that I had come on my period a week early.

Walking out, I glanced at myself in the mirror, taking in the sequinned, pink, kitten t-shirt I was wearing.

Why does menstruating always give me applaing fashion sense?

Jayce finally txt me on Friday:

“Hey you. I’m bored out of my mind at my hotel. Just came back from (celeb who I shan’t name’s) party. What are you up too? Why don’t you ever call me? xxx”

I replied:

“I don’t call you because I don’t want to disturb you if you are busy. What sort of party ends at 9.30pm? (I used Google to work out the time difference) No wonder you are bored. X”

With nothing else to do that night, I ended up going to a lesbian bar in Soho with my friend Emma and drinking over priced pink cocktails called CherryBombs.

Worryingly enough, I didn’t get chatted up once. I didn’t even warrant a second glance from anyone! Tried to console myself that it was because they all assumed that Emma and I were a couple, but she dashed my hopes by pointing out that the real reason was most probably because I was so obviously a sexual tourist and not a genuine dyke.

“What makes you say that?” I asked her pouting, “I could be a genuine lesbian!”

“For a start, you’re wearing a t-shirt that says ‘Dip me in honey and throw me to the lesbians’. Plus your nails are too long. That’s the lesbian equivalent of fucking a razor blade”.

On Saturday night I went to a family friend’s surprise 18th birthday party. I had only been planning on staying for a couple of drinks to be social but ended up trollied on celebratory champagne, dancing on a table, and snogging a rather sexy 19 year old kickboxer down the end of the garden.

I think younger men are definitely the way forward. They are far easier to impress than older guys. You pretty much just have to tell them your age and they are ejaculating in their pants humming ‘Mrs Robinson’.

But then again, maybe I am letting my standards drop a little. My main reason for getting off with him was because instead of leaning in to kiss me like regular guys (giving me a chance to duck and run), he lifted me up mid-sentence (I was giving him a lecture about the benefits of further education and why to say no to drugs I believe), and pinned me against the fence whilst kissing me.

I was so shocked and impressed that he could actual life my huge bulk, that I was putty in his hands!

From what I could tell from our drunken fumble, he has a body to die for and amazing upper body strength that could lead to some amazing encounters another time.

I would have pretty much given in right then if the birthday girl’s mum hadn’t called us all in to cut the cake. We sidled into out places, as my sister did her best to pull twigs out of my hair.

Felt a bit guilty later on that night when I got home to four missed calls from Jayce and a txt from BT saying he was hoping to see me at (family friends) birthday party but he was too tired after a hard day’s pie making.

BT and I had a near perfect second date. We went to the cinema to see ‘The Break-Up’ (how ironic!). He paid and I bought the popcorn.

Afterwards we went for pizza and spent all night laughing, eating and holding hands over the table.

It was the sort of date you wish you had as a teenager, where instead all your trips to the cinema resulted in you desperately fighting off some spotty oiks advances in the dark, going halves on a happy meal, and a soggy kiss goodnight where he simultaneously tries to ram his tongue down your throat and his hand up your top.

We shared a chaste kiss goodbye when he dropped me off home and a quick check in the hallway mirror after he left revealed that I did not have food in my teeth, was not trailing toilet roll on my shoe, nor was my skirt tucked into my pants. My hair was near perfect, my mascara un-smudged, and I had for once, not spilt any food down my front.

I am sure this means I have secured a third date!

Still no word from Jayce, nothing unusual there per say. It’s like a cat and mouse waiting game, I know if I were to txt him he would txt back or even call within the minute. But instead, I wait, because when he does finally contact me,

I can pretend that he cares.

I was sitting on the train today happily passing the time blowing bubbles with my Hubba-Bubba bubblegum, when suddenly, a well dress commuter sitting opposite me and said:

“You know, you are a very attractive girl, but blowing bubbles with bubblegum spoils the look”.

I told him that I could say the same about his comedy socks with his expensive shoes and suit, to which he laughed.

It got me thinking, what gave him the right to tell me not to blow bubbles with my gum as it spoilt his view?!

Does this mean that I now have license to ask commuters to change their appearance on the grounds of eye pollution?

“Excuse me madam, I could not help but notice that you haven’t brushed your hair today. It is spoiling my over all enjoyment of your features. Do you mine if I give it a quick comb?”

If this were allowed, fashion crimes would be a thing of the past.

Just think of all those times when you have wanted to wipe the smeary garish make-up of a twelve year olds face, or ripped off a businessman’s Mickey Mouse tie.

You could even go as far as to suggest that whiffy passengers use a squirt of deodorant or told them about their bad breath/spinach in their teeth.

I’ve not heard a word from Jayce since he left for “Japan”.

Been resisting the urge to walk past his office and peep through a window but think I can only hold back for so long.

I have another date with BT tomorrow which should take my mind of things for a couple of hours.

I thought being the other woman was the easy job?

Now I know I am getting old.

I went shopping in TopShop, Oxford Circus this weekend and was horrified at how young and underfed the models in the display pictures looked.

Rather than inspiring me to buy their clothes in a pique of desperation to achieve that look, I instead headed straight out the door, as who would want to look like a Pre-pubescent Russian crack addict?

It seems that breasts and backsides are now out of fashion, which is unfortunate as the last I checked, 50% of the population came equipped with each.

I was thus forced to spend my hard earned cash on shoes and underwear (at Office and Myla respectively) as neither of these required the use of communal fitting rooms.

I have a love/hate relationship with underwear shopping. Whilst I LOVE to buy new underwear (marginally cheaper than having a crack addiction), I hate all the fuss that goes with it.

For example, there are so many new bras on the market that I never know which I need. Do I want to be pushed up, plunging or lightly padded? What underwear do I want to complete the set? The French knickers won’t look good under anything I own (think VPL) and I drawn the line at having a piece of dental floss pulled up my crack all day.

Plus, I can’t seem to resist the lure of ₤1 Primark pants. It seems that whenever I have compiled a suitably sensational underwear collection, I then go and ruin it by bulk-buying underwear adorned with frolicking kittens, ‘cute’ sayings, or anything that might be considered ‘ironic’ or retro.

In fact, every time I have gotten unexpectedly lucky, I have been wearing said kitten pants, which actually has given me a new found respect for the men in my (sex) life as it cannot be easy to perform when confronted with the sexual equivalent of a stop sign.

There has even been one occasion where sex was withheld due to the nature of my pants. I had been to the Take That concert the night before and was wearing a pair of knickers with the saying “It only takes a minute’ emblazoned across the front. Jayce forced me to change into something sexier as not to offend the ‘Gods of good taste’.

Not only this, but underwear costs a fortune nowadays! The cost of a good bra starts at around ₤20 then you have to get all the matching bits and pieces (times two, as you can never find the matching briefs when you are in a rush).

Embarking on a new relationship also forces these costs to spiral. Heaven forbid Jayce see me in the same underwear set twice! Plus, the idea of someone else seeing your smalls forces you to be ruthless and throw out everything slightly graying, sagging or with poking out underwire. This left me with about three pairs of (non-kitten covered) pants and two bras.

But.. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Primark has actually started to produce some rather nice Agent Provocateur inspired underwear sets. Just make sure you cut out the Primark label (or change it to Primarni with a laundry marker).