Before I launch into the weekend story I need to give you the back story. In my late 20’s I landed a very jammy job that essentially involved me travelling to lots of cool cities for various conferences. Now this was extremely glamorous for around a month until I realised that airport – conference center – airport is not as exciting as it sounds (as Conortje knows). However I did managed to fit in a few good trips. One of my best junkets was to Cairo where I cleverly got some holidays and booked myself into the Mena House Oberoi. (Put it on your places to stay before you die.) Of course the major disadvantage of such trips is being on your own. So there I was on Thursday night, with the lovely Frederick Forsyth and a Chardonnay (it was the 90’s) looking out at the Pyramids.

Suddenly the waiter stopped by with a glass of Champagne. I tried to explain in my loud ‘allo, ‘allo English that I hadn’t ordered the drink, when he pointed at a pretty delicious guy at the bar e.g. he didn’t have a head like a Sphinx. As I was pleasantly merry and he was very cute in a big hunter-gatherer way I beckoned him over. So began a very dramatic weekend with my new drink buying friend.

The next day was spent visiting the Pyramids and having our first kiss inside the main tomb; as freaky as it was cool (how often do you get to kiss someone in a Pyramid!). Day meandered into night and we ended up with another kiss at my door and then to bed alone – a gentlemen to boot! Saturday was spent at the museum in Cairo. He was super sexy, extremely well educated ( American Ivy League ) and totally charming, but not in a sleazy way. Apparently he was a ‘Trader’ although I have never found out what he trades! I was madly in lust and texting everyone about my new find.

He was due to fly out that evening so we said our goodbyes. I dealt with the disappointment by frying myself beside the pool with a steady flow of “Sex on the Beachâ€? – did I mention it was the 90’s? After my 3rd cocktail the waiter arrived over with a Champagne. I smiled wryly (drunkenly) at the difference in getting my second Champagne of the weekend, when the waiter pointed over to a gentleman at the pool bar – ‘The Trader’. Shocked doesn’t begin to cover it. ‘The Trader’ had changed his flights so we could spend more time in Cairo.

Now this all sounds very Mills and Boon until you realise that I was slightly ahead on the drinks front. ‘The Trader’ gallantly tried to catch up but to no avail. Six hours later we were having a MASSIVE drunken argument over a too friendly Belly Dancer. We parted on less than civil terms at around 3am. Bizarrely we stayed in contact for the next year and met up in ever more exotic cities. The pattern was always the same, great day out, too much drink ending in a massive row. Apparently the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. We were both clinically insane. Eventually for the sake of my little remaining sanity I broke contact and went cold Turkey on ‘The Trader’. 10 years without any contact and just before Christmas he poked* me – on Facebook.

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*Thanks to IsItJustMe for the Facebook Lingo

It was a pretty standard night out before Christmas, town smelt of burnt steak and desperate women; Keoghs was full of drunk men - none good looking, Cafe was full of drunk men - none Irish and the Horseshoe was full of drunk men - none single, although a few seemed to think they were.

I was about to give up my explorations when Lady M convinced me to have one for the road in ‘Samsara’. Not one of my favourite places as no matter where you stand you are in a walk way, so the whole pub becomes human bumping cars. Alcohol is ordered on the ability to drink without spilling. Just as well Cosmopolitans are now passe. On my way back from the bar having successfully swerved most people I crashed into a rather large lad…

Although my drink remained intact his didn’t and it rained down on top my recently blow dryed hair. Before I had a chance to engage Rant Drive – Warp Speed, he pulled off his top and started drying me off. Hard to say which I was more shocked by, his response or his biceps. He wasn’t overly good looking, but by God was he built and not in a manufactured gym way.

I eventually managed to convince him that I was fine and he could reclaim his shirt. Not like me to encourage a man to put on clothes but women people were starting to drool stare. Bicep Boy insisted on buying me a drink, but as I could feel my hair starting to frizz and Lady M was waiting we settled on another time and swapped numbers – result. Turns out he is a carpenter, hence the arms, and as I met him before Christmas it seems logical to call him Joseph.

Shortly after I left the pub, thinking that was the end of my excitement for the night, but as is often the case I was wrong. Another surprise was waiting for me at home………….

After a pretty successful date with ‘The Waxwork’ last week, I have started to reconsider my dinner date types. In my experience they break down into the following types:

(strongly recommend reading the comments, there are some crackers! )

Mr. Kobe Beef - well bred, exclusive and generally very bloody rare

He will probably run his own company or some multi-national. Chances are he will just have jetted in from east coast America, before running off to check his new operation in Eastern Europe. Most of your dinner date will be spent watching him check his Blackberry, while you furiously text your friends about how fabulous he is. He will of course pay for dinner ( expenses ) and you can coyly offer to ‘get it next time’ on the very off chance he is ever in the country long enough for another date.

Mr. Shepards Pie - comforting, balanced but you just don’t give a flock.

He probably has a nice pensionable job, goes out drinking once a week ( never more than 4 pints ) and phones his mother every other day. On a Tuesday he plays 5-a-side with the lads and can quote long passages from Fr Ted. A small compensation for the general lack of a sense of humour. You know exactly what you’re going to get with Mr. Shepards Pie – that’s the problem.

Mr. Abrakebabra – a bit of beef and lots of sauce, briefly satisfying but instantly regretted.

At 3am in the smoking area of Copper Face Jacks Mr Abrakebra will seem pretty appealing. He’s probably over from the UK working on the sites and lives in a bedsit somewhere in Rathmines. Most of his cash is sent back to the UK to support his 7 children by 4 different women. He fills the hole, so to speak, but you’re unlikely to go back for seconds.

Well it was a mixed weekend of joy and happiness. My good friend broke-up with her boyfriend the day before her Birthday – put that in the bad dumped story top 10. This separation got me thinking about the realities of breaking up in your thirties. (I have written before about different age related styles of breaking up and the essential recovery plan.)

In your teens you are of course heart-broken when you and your first love part ways. You firmly believe that you will never feel like that again or possibly love another person. The former is almost right, in the same way that I loved those grey velvet knickerbockers, thankfully I’ll never feel like that again. Luckily sometime in the next 70 years or so you will fall in love again. Sure enough a few weeks later the tears have stopped and you are slow dancing with your ex-boyfriend’s second cousin twice removed. Recovery complete.

Sadly in your twenties things are a little harder. Real thought has gone into potential wedding dresses and venues for the big day, when suddenly the glass slipper is pulled from your foot and ground into your heart. It generally takes a while to bounce back and every other man is viewed with intense suspicion - if at all. By the time you reach your thirties the chain of failed relationships has caused an area of your heart to be forever fenced off with a big sign saying “here there be dragonsâ€?. But mother nature waits for no man and neither do you, so eventually you do fall in love again - although perhaps not as hard. It’s a more logical love.

This time the break-up, like the relationship, is different. Once you get over the shock, a wave of despair overwhelms you, not that you have lost the man of your dreams, but that you’ll have to go out and find another bloody one. More nights of hanging out in suspect bars where some of the women are now half your age. Finding yourself chatting to guys who can’t even remember their own name, let alone yours. The prospect of that can be even more depressing than the break-up, which may explain why some women hang on whatever the cost. Anything or anyone can be better than get back on the relationship roller coaster.

But sometimes trying again can be worth the effort. So, least I become to maudlin let me share the joy for Lord H and his soon to be Lady, who got engaged this weekend. Proving that some things, like fine wine, are worth waiting for. Best of luck guys although thankfully you don’t need it !