In which I embrace single life... and the barman

The last few weeks have been hard. The reality of my relationship ending really hit home; the Former Love of my Life finally moved out of our flat, signalling a real end to everything we had. I went to pick up a stray birthday card and burst into tears; it was not a high point. I realised what a waste of time my flirtation with The Journalist was; he has a girlfriend, and if I'm really honest, I can't be doing with the hassle. An old school friend got engaged, another one bought a flat with her boyfriend... and Best Mate told me she's having a baby! I genuinely couldn't be happier for her and her lovely fiancé, but all these couples have been together for less time than I was with the Love of my Life - it's really hammered home what we could have had, and never will.

So when one of my school friends invited me up to London for a night of vodka and karaoke to celebrate her birthday, I dragged my tired little self into my highest, sparkliest heels and onto the train. And it was there, several vodkas in, that I met The Brazilian.

He was working behind the bar, and he hit on me. I can't remember the last time that happened. In my experience, boys are shy, and as I am not so shy, I tend to lead the way on amorous encounters. But The Brazilian flirted with me, bought me drinks, asked for my number... in fact, he said "You give me your number, yes?" in a way that really didn't suggest it was a question at all. That confidence, that accent... when he kissed me, I actually melted.

My first single girl kiss. It was everything I might have hoped for and more. He'd have been a superb kisser even without the tongue stud, but as a girl who likes a bit of metal on a man... wow.

However, I know how dating works. Men do not call. Barmen who smooch with customers over the bar especially do not call. I did not expect to hear from him again. Except then, less than 24hrs later, he texted me, asking if I'd had a good night. He said he would call me the next day... and he did. It's sad that I should set so much store by a man calling when he said he would, but my last flirtation was with The Journalist and we all know how that ended (no, he did not email me).

Anyway, The Brazilian and I talked for a hour, about music, films, travel... all the usual. He told me his full name, and believe you me, it's a good one, straight out of a Jilly Cooper novel. The perfect name for a sexy foreigner with whom I may have a small fling. Just a small one, because I'm under no illusions that a Brazilian barman with a tongue stud is likely to be anything more than perfect fling material. But I was touched by how straightforward he was - he called, he asked me out, no messing. I'm meeting him on Sunday for a bbq at his friend's place.

What on earth am I going to wear?

In which it is my birthday

It could have been a recipe for disaster. Recently single, living back at home with my parents, and officially closer to thirty than twenty, I must admit I had some reservations about my birthday. Don't get me wrong, I love birthdays. All that cake and alcohol, and people buying you nice things you don't need. This year though, I'd had to cull my present list a few weeks before the event (an espresso machine ceases to be the perfect gift when you no longer have a kitchen) and I'm still at that stage where a few glasses of wine lead to inconsolable sobbing after lights out.

As it happened though, I had a wonderful day. Best Mate and I caught the train to London, where we ate cupcakes and fancy pizzas. I also had my first ever facial, and a bellini with my lunch. Perfect.

That evening, I came home and shared a Chinese takeaway with The Family and Eldest Brother's Girlfriend, who I adore. We listened to American Anthems (THREE CDS!) and my brothers did a superb (if disturbingly high pitched) rendition of Journey's Don't Stop Believin'. The Girlfriend and I polished off two bottles of Pinot Grigio and generally had a lovely time.

Just as I was heading off to bed, I felt that familiar wave of slightly drunken melancholy wash over me, but then I got a text message from The Journalist. The Journalist and I have, shall we say, a mutual appreciation for each other, but he has a girlfriend and until recently I had a boyfriend. However, a text to wish me a happy birthday and tell me he still thinks about me wasn't entirely unwelcome, and managed to head off any Bridget Jones impressions.

The following day I put on my best dress and headed out for dinner with some of my very favourite people: Best Mate and her fiancé picked me up on the way, Forces Wife and her fiancé came down from Lincoln, Cousin and his girlfriend left the baby at home for the first time, and The Hostess With The Mostest kindly left her husband at home as well, preventing me from being the only single person at my own party. We ate exotic meat (ostrich anyone?), drank copious amounts of red wine, and then nearly broke our ankles climbing over a wall on our way to drink more red wine. Best Mate bought me a cupcake cookery book, Forces Wife's fiancé bought me a pashmina from Afghanistan, and even Geordie Lass sent me a care package of chocolate, wine and girly DVDs. The whole weekend was perfect, and reminded me that my friends and family are some of the best in the world. Thanks boys and girls - you really are something special.