A little confusion on my last post - not unusual. The birthday was actually not mine, ( I am still clinging to my mid 30’s for dear life) but rather a friend known as ‘The Devil Hunter’, so called for her criteria for finding a man, which revolves around three 6’s:

6 figure salary
Over 6 ft
Owns house in or near Dublin 6

(he also has to be good looking, funny, generous, thoughtful and faithful)

Most crucially he must challenge her. I have tried on numerous occassions to tactfully point out that finding such a a man is the challenge enough. Even if he did exist, I’m guessing that he will be aiming for someone a little younger, who isn’t reproductively challenged, with a 36 – 26 – 36 figure and an IQ less than the sum of her parts.

I can understand why some blokes, particularly the successful ones, don’t want a challenging career women. These guys spend most of their days at work ensuring that they are the shafter not the shaftee. After a day of that who wants to come home and hear about their partners corporate woes? Wash away the new man’s ‘Nivea Visage Skin Repair Cream’ and you’ll find a guy who longs to come home to a clean house, dinner that doesn’t end with a ping, served by someone who isn’t wearing fleece jim jams and slippers, because they’ve been stuck in a suit and heels all day. You can cry foul all you want but it is no co-incidence that all the girls that I know who have married well are teachers or similar while all the uber career women are resolutely single.

Perhaps it is time to give up the Chick lit dream of having it all - if it were possible the genre would be listed under non-fiction and probably not sell as well. Accept the independence and challenge that a successful career offers you, but appreciate it can come with a personal price. After all, if your job is really that fulfilling and takes the bulk of your time and energy then you probably don’t want or need a man anyway.

‘The Maven’ has been out of action as he recently became a Daddy, but he did drop me a text suggesting lunch as he had a business proposal for me, which is a pleasant change from his usual indecent ones. I guess I am getting old!

We did the normal Dylan on a Friday afternoon. Over lunch he explained that his jet setting life isn’t compatible with raising a child. Luckily I have the relevant time and experience to help him out, so I am the perfect Paternity cover - welcome to modern Ireland!

We were still trying to agree terms when lunch-a-deux quickly became drinks-a-dix as the usual suspects started arriving. Things were getting a bit crowded when ‘The Maven’ called yet another person over to join us – ‘Undumpable Dave’. I haven’t seen him since he got engaged over 8 years ago. We dated very briefly in my 20’s, but not as briefly as I would have liked. He got his name from being English aka Dave and Undumpable, because he was. We had many long painful conversations about how things weren’t working out, he would nod earnestly and agree then appear again the next day as if nothing had happened – generally with tickets for a weekend away.

When we finally managed to break-up for good he very quickly got a new girlfriend, whose most likable quality was her intense jealously. Unsurprisingly I never heard from him again – proving that one woman’s trash is indeed someone else’s precious.

Eight years later you can imagine my shock to see him approaching. When ‘The Maven’ realised how I knew ‘Undumpable Dave’ he decided there wasn’t space on the sofa for 2 ex-boyfriends.

“Will I fit in there� - Undumpable Dave, pointing at the dramatically reduced space since The Maven spread himself out.

“Not sure, it’s a bit of a squeeze� - The Maven

“Don’t be silly he’s been in much tighter places than that� - I VERY loudly replied.

This pretty much set the tone for the rest of the night with ‘Undumpable Dave’. A few hours later he was insisting that I fly over in his jet to watch the rugby match in London. (He works in Shopping Center Developments, so the last few years have been very good to him.) As I had parted company with common sense after the 3rd Mojito, this seemed like a terrific idea. Until the next day……………..

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

Well the inevitable happened this weekend. I guess the only real shock is that it took this long.

As almost every doctor in Dublin took the previous weekend off to attend the rugby match, it meant that Dr McRide had Saturday off. He was debating options when I cleverly suggested drinks and the match in our place ( nobody over 30 has parties anymore it’s either dinner or drinks – happy Vodka jelly memories when the only food preparation was opening a packet of Tayto). I reasoned that he could meet more locals and get to invite some people from work – ideally other single doctors.

The usual panic of pre-party shopping, cooking and cleaning took place in the morning. It was really great to have someone to share the work with. I can see a definite co-relation between the rise of relationships and drop in the serving classes. Partners function as excellent, chauffeurs, bag carriers and commis chefs.

The first half of the game was a bit dismal and it was looking like a ‘drown-your-sorrows-night’ which was fine as I was happy to provide my shoulder and any other part of my anatomy for Dr McRide to cry on. But the second half more than made up for the bad start with lots of excuses to hug Dr. McRide. Granted we didn’t win but the mood was still relatively buoyant afterwards – until 8pm.

All of sudden the buzzer went into warp speed and gang after gang of women started showing up. The front door was like the finish line of the ‘Women’s Mini Marathon’. Turns out that Dr. McRide didn’t stop at inviting the doctors; the nurses got a call up too. For the rest of the night women were clustered around Dr. McRide tighter than an atom and you had as much chance of splitting them apart.

At 11pm I finally gave up when I found one of the many Hot Lips giving mouth to mouth to Dr. McRide on the balcony. I have to admit to being pretty gutted. On the bright side it does imply he’s not gay!

Thankfully I took some inspiration from Eddie* and booty called up a new player who provided me with a nice, big, strong ……. shoulder to cry on. Granted like the Irish rugby team it wasn’t the score I wanted, but it wasn’t a total wipe out.

*Irish rugby coach who finally brought some new players onto the pitch on Saturday