50 Ways to Find a Lover by Lucy-Anne Holmes Page A

He sprang up and said, ‘Thanks for that, Sare, that was a good warm-up. I’m off to the gym now.’ I shudder at the memory.
    ‘Now then, Sare, the thing is, you’re nearly thirty.’
    ‘Ahhhh,’ I scream, putting my hands over my ears. ‘Please don’t say that! I’m in my twenties, I’ve told you!’
    ‘What you need to understand is that when you get to your age your metabolism slows down.’ He casts his eyes around my room and says, ‘Actually yours might have stopped already. The point is you need to do some cardiovascular exercise.’
    ‘Cardiovascular exercise’ is my worst pair of words after ‘last orders’.
    ‘I just don’t think that sitting in a darkened room all day on the computer is healthy.’
    ‘Look, Si, I love the fact you care. But I’m doing very important blogging work here.’ I click the Refresh button on my laptop and gasp at what the screen is telling me.
    ‘What’s the matter?’ asks Si.
    ‘I’ve got a comment,’ I squeak.
    ‘What?’
    ‘A comment,’ I whisper. I gape at the screen, agog.
    ‘What the fuck?’
    ‘I write my blog, but there’s a button on it that says Comment and people can click on it if they want to post a message. Someone has left a comment.’
    Simon shakes his head and then bends down and reads my first comment aloud.
    Hello Spinster, I have just read your blog, I like you am a spinster, your speed dating exploits have inspired me to have a go at it too, I hope I meet someone as nice as P. Wish me luck!
     
    ‘I can’t believe people actually read my blog. The only people I told about it are you and Julia and Mum and Dad but they don’t even have a computer! Oh my God, strangers are reading my blog.’
    I feel overcome. I want to cry with happiness. I won’t because Simon has seen me blub far too often recently. But getting a blog comment oddly feels like a seminal moment in my life. Someone I have never even met has read about my quest and taken the time to write to me. And best of all says that I inspire her.
    ‘Si, I’m, like, an inspiration to women,’ I gasp.
    Simon looks at me in my dirty pyjamas nearly moved to tears by a blog comment. He shakes his head and repeats the word ‘crazy’ three times. He leaves me and I close my eyes tightly and quickly whisper, ‘Please, God, let me get some more comments. Please.’

 
eight
     
    I am standing in Soho Square with my hands on my hips. Yet again I am trying to dry two enormous sweat rings under my arms. These have been created by my fear of Quest No. 2: Pulling at a Big-Screen Showing of a Football Match. I reasoned that a big screening of a big game would mean a lot of predominantly straight men in one place. I confided in my blog my meticulous three-part strategy:
1)
Thoroughly scope the venue – I have chosen to go to a cavernous pub in the West End. Simon comes here sometimes. When he does he stands on the mezzanine level and looks down at all the girls in low-cut tops. He calls this Booby Heaven. I believe that Booby Heaven will give me a perfect vantage point for scoping
2)
Select a subject and approach – I will pretend that I have lost a friend. I will walk around scanning the room for my ‘female friend’, thus getting myself up close to my subject. Then I will stand near him looking neither desperate nor alarming but quietly concerned for the whereabouts of my friend
3)
Follow up with a good opening line of conversation – my dad maintains that you should always start a letter or a tricky conversation with something that the other person wants to hear. So ‘You’re the best-looking person in here, can I chat to you until my friend arrives?’ or ‘Are you in a band?’ seem promising
    I felt like an invincible pioneer for women when I lay in bed in my pyjamas and posted this strategy on my blog. I now feel like a terrified five-year-old who’s just wet herself on her first day of school. I blame Paul for this entirely. It is a week since I met him. Not a call, not a