People of the world. Please note: there are hardly any instances where using the words “myself” or “yourself” is correct.

“It was really bad for myself” – WRONG
“I thought I would ask how it impacted yourself” – WRONG
“I can’t believe what he said to yourself” – WRONG
“James and myself went to the pub” – WRONG

“It was really bad for me” – CORRECT
“I thought I would ask how it impacted you” – CORRECT
“I can’t believe what he said to you” – CORRECT
“James and I went to the pub” – CORRECT

Also:
“I asked myself what I should do” – CORRECT

That is all

His arms curl around me. Branches, surrounding me, giving me roots.

I can feel his familiar body behind me, moulding to my shape. I can feel him breathing on the back of my neck. Warm, regular breathing, lulling me to unconsciousness.

In this cocoon of arms and legs I am safe. I am not alone.

The alarm pierces the fug of sleep.

I slowly wake up and stretch across the empty bed.

Another day has begun.

“I’m running away”, I whined. “There’s no way I’m doing this.”

I pause, eyeing up an escape route.

“You don’t believe me, but I will.”

Blonde grins at me, sips her wine and then studiously examines the “speeding ticket” we’d both been handed, ignoring me.

“Welcome to tonight’s Slow Dating event” I read. “You’ll be give four minutes to get acquainted with each other. At the end of each four minute date we will ring a bell. Guys, you move on to the next table. Ladies, stay where you are.”

That’s easy for you to say. Every part of me is urging me to bolt. We’re sitting outside a pub on New Oxford Street. From the outside, its black paintwork makes it look more like a goth joint than a bar for slick, hip, city dwellers. This doesn’t bode well.

I glance around, mentally summing up everyone I see. Fat. Ugly. Desperate. Too short. Too… meh.

Somewhere a bell rings. I take a deep breath. This is it. Plunging, headfirst, back into the game.

I settle myself at table 6, sticking the rather embarrassing name tag on the table, hoping against hope that there will at least be someone semi-interesting to talk to. Blonde sits next to me, ready to pre-warn with a well practiced look if my impending date is going to last 4 minutes or 40.

I have a couple of stock questions in mind, just incase things are really going slowly.

Thankfully, my first date, B, the Scottish pharmaceutical software engineer is perfectly nice and easy to talk to. Shame he’s ugly. The next 11 dates aren’t much better. Every time the bell rings, my heart sinks a little further. Wine slips down my throat far too quickly. Why don’t they have waiters at this thing? And then, as soon as it begun, it is over. I thank my last date and high tail it to the door.

For your amusement, below is the word for word transcript of my notes on the evening (additional notes added in the cold light of day in italics.)

• K – Irish. Air traffic control [when asked what his perfect job would be. Something to do with the high-vis vest he said]
• C – Irish. NZ. Climb [instantly forgettable. Broad accent and ginger hair.]
• J – Taiwaan. Find himself [incredibly quiet. Blonde wondered whether this was so us ladies had to lean forward to hear him giving him a perfect view down our tops? His photo on the site shows him spread across a bed. His big mission in life - to find himself.]
• R – Essex. Fat. DJ [need I add more?]
• T – Malaysia. Red Wine. Champagne [a man with a passion for wine. And that's about it, it seems]
• P – Dull. Gay. Grand Designs ["Have you been to an event like this before?" I ask. "Ooh yes," he says "lots. But no one's ever ticked me" I wonder whether the reason he hasn't had much success is because he keeps going to straight events.]
• J – Mad lottery man [apparently J goes to a lot of speed dating events. Like, every week. Apparently he makes things up. Evidently, he's slightly mad... or a little slow - backed up by the fact that my friend's 2 year old can write better than he could. This week, his parents had won the lottery. Yes, really. "What's it like talking to a multi-millionaire?" J asks me. I bite my tongue but want to answer "I don't know. I'll let you know when I meet one"]
• Y – Kuwait. Sweet but no cigar [a nice guy. Not my type but I nice guy. To be fair though, anyone would seem nice after the mad lottery man.]
• R – Indian. Wants to change the world ["I've been in London for 3 years," R tells me, "but I don't really have any friends. I have people I work with but no one I could go out for coffee with." I'm tempted to tick him, just so he feels wanted.]
• M – Costa Rica. Film [this is all I got out of M. He talked a lot. Nothing sunk in. Obviously, not a great date.]
• Y – Numbers [again, if the lasting impression I get from a man is "numbers", I don't think it's going to be the love affair of the century.]

And so, this morning, an email came through, asking me to tick my favourites. 3 minutes later, I receive this…

“We are sorry that you didn’t tick anyone from this event. The good news is that under the terms of our guarantee, you are entitled to a free event in future (any time within the next six months).We run regular events near you and invariably there are completely different people at each event, so fingers crossed that next time, there may well be someone who rocks your boat.”

Does this mean I have to do it all again?

“Oh come on,” Blonde cajoles. “Just think, if it all goes horribly wrong, at least we can make a blog post out of it.”

My foray into the murky world of singledom has, thus far, not been exceptionally successful. On doing a quick tally this morning, I find the average age of people looking at my dubious profile is 38. Considering I’m looking for men from 28 – 35, I don’t think I’m really hitting the mark.

As sure as I am that “ash” the 76 year old, 5′7” widow is a lovely guy I’m not sure I’m right for him. He’s looking for someone who “enjoys dressing up when required” and “likes to go to Dinner Dances”. I don’t think jeans is going to cut it. However, I am “a good Driver” and “as an extra bonus” I can “drive on the Continent”. What makes me feel a little sad is that fact that the poor man has been alone for 13 months and his son has told him “it’s time to move on”. Harsh.

However, I persevere. And this is why it comes to pass that Blonde and I are going speed-dating (or, as the organisers put it “slow” dating – you get a whole 4 minutes per date) next week.

And now over to you, dear readers. What the hell am I going to say?

…for your guests, that is.

1. Free bar

To me, this is a bit of a no-brainer. I understand that some people just don’t have the budget but for me, a wedding is a celebration and therefore should have free alcohol in order to help the er…  celebration

2. Minimal use of children

I don’t mean in the slave labour kind of way – that should be done as much as possible (kidding, kidding, don’t report me to the NSPCC). What I mean is ok, people have children, I can’t begrudge them procreation. What I can get a bit miffed at is the fact they feel they have to bring them along to weddings. Weddings are adult things. They’re all about love and sex and marriage. They’re about getting drunk and flirting. They are not about small ankle biters tripping up unsuspecting guests and making drunken 27 year olds feel like they should have done more with their life.

3. Get a good band

I know music is subjective but when you’re planning your wedding, realise that not everyone shares your taste of music. Also realise that if people are drunk enough, they will dance (see point 1). Therefore, get a band that rocks. They should be a) good and b) play classics. Rehashing bad pop songs from the last 40 years does not count. Neither does playing slow songs at 8:30 in the evening. Who’s in the mood for a slow dance then?

4. Don’t force cheesiness on your guests

The first dance? Don’t do it. What could be more embarrassing for you or your guests than watch you and your beloved shuffle your way round an empty dancefloor to “My heart will go on” sung by an overweight backing singer. Not a lot. That’s what.

5. Make sure you have a good mix of people

I know that old people are obligatory at weddings. I know the ugly cousin who you’ve never spoken to probably needs to be there too. But the rest of the guests. These are yours. Have a good mix. Have single people, taken people, straight people, gay people, older people, young people. Make sure you have one “gets on with everyone” person on each table. Get your bridesmaids/ushers to do the work of introducing people that will get on. How pleased would you be if your wedding resulted in another? Well exactly.

6. Help out with logistics

If you’re going to have your wedding in the middle of nowhere (which I fully intend to) then make sure you help your guests out. Give them numbers of cab companies. List local B&Bs/hotels etc, give good directions. There’s nothing worse than people having to leave at 10:30 because they’ve got to get the last train home.

7. Feed your guests

I know that you’re likely to have a sit down meal with most of your guests but, if you’re budget’s a bit on the small side, you might invite a load of people just to the reception. If so, let them eat too. Why not offer cheese, biscuits, chutney, fruit and port at around 10:30 – that’ll help them soak up some of the booze and stave off those hunger pangs. And besides, everyone loves cheese!

8. Don’t let the speeches drag

It’s lovely that everyone wants to speak at your wedding but please don’t enforce it on everyone else. If great-uncle Alan from Atlanta wants to tell you how pretty you are, can’t he do it later. When no one else is listening? Eat. Listen to the father of the bride. Listen to the groom. Toast. Drink. Dance. Enough.

9. Don’t force compliments

Guest books. I hate them. Imagine, you’re slightly tipsy and the happy couple are asking you to think of something nice to say. All you can think of is “Why aren’t there any single men here you bastards? Don’t you care about us single people now you’re married?” and yet you end up writing “Congratulations! I know you’ll be very happy together! Just think, if you last 15 years and you’d have killed her instead of married her, you’d be free!”

10. Have fun

It’s your wedding. If you’re not having fun, no one else will.

I know that I’m moving on. I know I’m moving forward. I know I’m Getting On With It.

But he still disturbs my sleep, invading my dreams. I can still hear him, smell him, feel him.

Will he ever leave me alone? Do I want him to?

I had a lonely weekend. Surrounded by people but no one there. A phone full of numbers but no one to call.

I was, and still am, alone.

Everyone, but everyone, is getting married. Yes, even you’re probably getting married. You just don’t know it yet.

It’s been just over 3 months since the N thing and I think I’m ready to start doing new things. Meeting new people. Having some fun. There’s only so much moping around one can do on a Saturday night. I’ve complained endlessly about how lonely I’ve been and so now I’ve decided to actually do something about it.

And this is where you come in, dear reader.

I’m contemplating the online thing. Does it still have such a stigma against it that I need to call it “thing”? Can’t I just come out and say I’m thinking about online dating? It’s given people blog fodder in the past. Could I be one of those? Could I put myself through it?

If the answer to these questions is yes, I could and I will, how do I go about it? Where do I start? How would I describe myself?

“Sad lonely old woman looking for a fling to cheer herself up.”

Somehow I don’t think that’s going to be a winner.

Over to you.

My name is nuttycow and I’m a secret musical lover.

Les Mis, Phantom, Gigi, Singin’ in the Rain, My Fair Lady, Annie, Fiddler on the Roof, Slipper and the Rose. You name it, I love it.

I love the handsome men with good voices.

I love the variety of love story.

I love the flashes of happiness.

I have secret sessions. I have soundtracks on my ipod. I wind up the windows in the car and blast out the opening bars, singing along. I forget there are other people around. Hours at home, when no one’s around, watching musical after musical.

They’re my comfort blanket. I hang onto them when everything else is spiralling out of control. They calm me.

But deep down, deep deep down, I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t feel like this. So I hide my love away from the world, praying no one will ever find out. Hoping no one will ask me if they can see my DVD collection. Sheltering myself from their smirks.

What’s your secret shame?

There were 5 of us who started together on that first term.

T had the bed by the cupboards, L was by the window, O was on the bottom bunk, I was on the top and M? M was in the middle bed.

Symes House looked as though it had been built in the mid 1960s (although the  main school itself first opened its doors in September 1885 to just 11 boarders and 6 day students). Named after a former headmistress, the boarding house was (and still is although I think it’s got much better recently. They’ve now got carpets!)  a small, squat building with big windows and echoing staircases home to 30 girls under the age of 12. The second floor was populated by five dorms and a bathroom. The ground floor had a big common room, two small music rooms, another bathroom and the tuck cupboard.

Two harridans ruled the house with an iron fist. Mrs W, a wrinkly woman of about 90 (probably. She was probably only about 60 but to our young 8 year old eyes, she was ancient) was the house mistress. The position of matron was taken by Miss C. A fresh faced, smooth skinned, 30 year old virgin with a penchant for looking at young girls in the showers (she was fired soon after I left).

After lights out, you could always tell who was lurking by the footsteps. Mrs W shuffled. Her steps sounding like the rustling of leaves. Miss C clomped. Her heavy shoes resonating round the hollows walls.

T, L, O, M and I had been put in “St Michael’s” for our first year.

“You new girls can go together” Miss C simpered “You can all become the best of friends”.

M had an elder sister who was already at the school. This meant she had insider knowledge. She knew which mistresses were mean. She knew which of the masters wouldn’t give you homework. And she knew about Mrs Symes.

At midnight on the cusp of Friday 13th and Saturday 14th, Mrs Symes’ ghost would come and sit on the foot of the middle bed of St Michael’s.  She would sit there until dawn. Watching. Waiting for movement. If the unsuspecting child in the middle bed should kick her, they were doomed. Mrs Symes would curse them. Would curse their family. No one would survive.

The night of the 13th drew in. The occupants of St Michael’s were still. Except one. M lay awake, looking at the luminescent digital clock on her bedside table. The numbers flicked by.

At 11:47pm she could no longer stand it. Quietly, quickly, she crept out of bed.

She was found the next morning, asleep in the bathroom.

The curse of Mrs Symes had been averted for another year.