Keep your fingers crossed that he’s The One

I’ve missed you, too. Presumptuous, I know, but do you know how much my earth moved in the past month?

There’s a man without brown shoes hunting me down – my oh my – and I am going dancing with him tonight. Now that’s scary.

I can’t do a Tom Hiddleston shiny-shoes move and, to the despair of my kids, I always throw my arms up in the air, shaking titties at the second note. But I’m ready, in Bryan Adams’ words. Take me, in my words.

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Four kids, bare plaas voete never seeing a pedicure, bikini bod I’ll never expose in the waves on any of your impromptu “worldwide backpacking tours”, I’m here for the taking. But that’s a tall order, methinks.

You’re used to manicured toes playing with your mouth; not my pluk in any case. Arm candy spells you, you tell me, even if you don’t know it. You’ve never dated a woman not at least 10 years younger than you, I do my sums. And here I come, five years older…

But the morning I put my shoes on for our first “coffee” date – read a bottle of red for me – I saw the flashes out of the corner of my eye.

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I phone Daughter: “Dad’s been flashing me. He is sending this man.” And I firmly believe he did. I must now just get over me “doing my gazelle” traipsing away. I must just consciously tell the man: “I every day learn to uncross my arms and legs for you.”

Because if I don’t, I play the safe card like I’ve done the past 13 years of being a widow. So. I’ll face the cold shower for a shave and a wash today a year after having only solar for Wi-Fi and lights and thaw in the sun before you stop at my gate.

Further than that you won’t get, unless you understand my dysfunction and don’t measure my four kids against yours. So your place it is then… And I’m game – must be – or I might just dip out on the best tango of my life.

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In the words of Leonard Cohen: Dance me to the end of love. Keep your fingers crossed that he’s The One. I am… Thank you for allowing me to visit. Watch this space…