In which The Journalist does not email me

I mentioned in my last post that my birthday bought with it a text message from The Journalist. He said he thinks about me a lot, I'm "pretty wonderful" and, crucially, that he would email me during the week. To be clear, those were his exact words: "I will email you during the week."

I should never have got my hopes up as a) my birthday was a Friday and he texted at 11pm, meaning there is a 100% chance he was drunk, b) he has the memory of a goldfish and has been known to forget entire conversations held less than 24 hours ago and c) he has a girlfriend. I realise he doesn't sound like much of a catch at this point, but you have to trust me when I say there is just something about this man. He manages to make all his failings utterly charming (except the part about having a girlfriend).

The Journalist likes me (more on that later) and he knows that I like him. When we were both in relationships, we emailed sporadically, met up for the occasional drink, and flirted outrageously within fairly safe parameters. Because we were both unavailable, we knew where we stood. We were on equal footing - if either of us had called an end to it, the other would have coped just fine. When things cooled off significantly a few months ago, I won't pretend I didn't miss him, but I knew it was best for everyone concerned.

Of course, now, everything is different. I'd written him off until I got his text message (our first contact since his birthday a couple of months ago) but now I was all over the place again. Yes, things would be easier if he was single, but I'm not going to get involved in trying to make that happen. However, I do like him, he is great company, and a few drinks and some flirting would be nice. Hardly admirable, but there you have it.

The week started, and continued, without an email. On Monday, I was ok with this. It wouldn't do for him to look too keen. On Tuesday, I started to obsess a tiny bit. Just a tiny bit. By Wednesday, I was jumping six foot out my chair every time an email came through (I work in PR and receive approximately 500 emails a day). On Thursday morning I thought, f*** it, it's only The Journalist, and emailed him.

Then the real fun started. He didn't email back. I realised that if I checked his Twitter account, I could see if he was tweeting from "web" or "Blackberry" therefore allowing me to ascertain whether or not he was at his desk and receiving his emails. In short, I became a crazy person, in a surprisingly short amount of time.

And then he emailed: "No, I will not go out with you. I have a girlfriend and you are a mental person. Due to cutting edge technology that you are currently unaware of, I am able to see that you have checked my Twitter account 47 times in the last four hours. Yes, I have your email. Yes, I am ignoring you. Please leave me alone and get help."

(This didn't actually happen. But it could have done.)

That night, I convinced myself his email would be waiting when I got to work the next morning. It wasn't. So I broke every rule in The Rules and DM'd him on Twitter. I kept it light. I asked if he'd got my email (I know, cringe) and said it was unlike him to reply. And he messaged me back straight away! He said, yes, he had got my email, but he was very busy and had forgotten to respond. He said he wasn't sure if he was busy next week, but he would let me know via email. He said "I promise." There was a kiss.

So, what we have here is a situation where he has, to all intents and purposes, said he will email me during the week. I am in trouble.

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.