Relationships are often full of uncertainty. We meet someone we like, we fall for them, and we wonder – what exactly are they to me? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Fuck buddy? Lover? Person-I’m-dating-temporarily? The good people – the ones who are decent and kind and open and trustworthy – will either know what you are or they’ll help you work it out. You’ll have those giggling deep conversations over a bottle of wine or a pot of coffee at 8 am, and you’ll say:

“What are we, exactly? Lovers, fuck buddies, boyfriends or…?”

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“Remember how you used to sniff my knickers while you had a wank?”

“Yep.”

“Do you still do that?”

“Nope.”

And thus my heart was broken.

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If I’m certain of anything about myself it’s this: I am a fucking nightmare. Anxiety means I am constantly examining every detail to see what might be right and wrong with my life. No – scratch that – every detail of what might be wrong. What’s right gets dumped on the ‘finished’ pile, and rarely given more time than a cursory ‘hooray’ before it’s time to move onto the next thing. Leaving my brain free to focus on unpaid bills, people I may have offended, and a mountain of relationship insecurity on the side.

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Most of the ones that got away did so because of timing.

Paul (not his real name, but he looked like a Paul. Or a Peter. Or a Stephen – with a ‘ph’ not a ‘v’) will never know just how perfectly wrong his timing was.

I met Paul in a beer garden. Again, most of the ones that got away escaped from beer gardens. Or pub lounges, if the weather was shitty. Metaphorically slipping out of the window when I was busy fucking someone else in the toilet.

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Most of my exes on Facebook now have children. This says less about the fertility of my ex-boyfriends than the people I stay friends with on facebook, to be honest. Still: of the ex-partners that I am still friends with on facebook, the majority of them have kids.

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