The Single Swingle

There are few things that remind me I am a lonely Singleton. I am happy to accept or decline dinner invitations at the drop of a hat ( though not after Wednesdays, I am superstitious about The Rules); attend formal functions unaccompanied in the knowledge that there will be ample willing dance partners to satisfy my desire to be a dancing queen and usually buy me drinks all night; and loll about in disgustingly comfortable pyjamas for approximately 35 minutes less than the time I spend in my own home. There are a couple of things that destabilise this happy equilibrium.

Perfume. I love it. I use lots of it. Not excessive asthma-inducing quantities, but subtle, nose-lifting, impression-boosting squirts, strategically placed to waft in my wake and disguise my galloping foot odour. I loathe buying it myself.

I was spoilt at a young age. It's 10 years since I was presented with a gift of the latest, most expensive or whatevertheprettieststewardesshappenedtobeholdingatthetime bottle. My hair-dryer no longer has to jostle for position with large crystal artworks for prestige place. I do not own a dressing table. Even so, the act of going up to the gloriously-technicoloured Boots attendant finds me speaking in hushed tones, pointing rapidly and clutching the resulting carrier bag much as I imagine a methodone patient's mother might charged with her offspring's prescription.

The only other time that I have poignantly felt the wrath of singledom was as an 18-year old pregnant no-hoper at an ante-natal clinic. It was my first scan. I entered the room alone. There was nothing unusual in that as the local hospital had a policy of not allowing anyone other than the expectant mother into the consulting room while the vital measurements and screenings were being undertaken, fathers only being admitted for a viewing afterwards. The radiographer explained to me that she had some technical information to collect so couldn't give me a running commentary on my embryo's vital statistics, that would come later. I lay back for about 15 minutes and finally she turned to me and asked if I wanted to call the father in. I mumbled that there wasn't a father and that I was alone. She promptly turned the machines off and sent me on my way with a tissue to wipe the gizz off my tummy.

It floored me. It still does a little bit. Every week there seems to be a fecund secretary wafting her slate-rubbing of a scan photo under our noses ( they didn't print those off then) and I always look and make the right noises and genuinely feel pleased for her, but a small part of me also acknowledges that I missed out on that experience. I didn't get to see his tiny feet, his sucked thumb, his proud, unavoidably-masculine features . He makes up for it every day by parading around in nothing more than a smile and a Very Confident swagger. I mourn that part of a pregnancy that every mother cherishes.

There's one other small deprivement that I would not bear if I was in a relationship. It's something that is perceivably easily remediable and might possibly change my life, or mood at least, considerably. There's a store stocking the merchandise not less than 500m away from the office. Try as I might though, it is not within me to declare myself quite so singularly resigned as to buy a Vibrator!