Internet Dating – My Three Dates with Mr Mockney; the ‘LibManChild’ – Innit!

Ahhhhh the 40+ year old bachelor that’s never been married or been in a serious relationship. That breed of male that has not had to think about anyone else; other than themselves. Ever.

I must have had rocks in my head when I agreed to go out on a date with ‘The Mockney Lawyer’. If you read my earlier posts you will remember that the ‘Mockney Lawyer’ had been on the scene for a while now. He’d been overseas for about six months ‘finding himself’ and came back to Sydney for three weeks for a quick change of underpants before dashing off to the USA last week for his final ‘personal discovery’.

My sane mind should have told me that any man that needs to go on a ‘self-discovery tour’, at nearly 43, was a bit of a red flag.

Furthermore, his last e-mail before boarding the plane, and turning left, was;

I’m one of life’s lucky people’.

Errrrrrrrrm OK?……….Does your band of merry followers carry your ego and hand you chicken voluvants in the first class lounge?

This, coupled with the fact that most of his overseas trip seemed to have been in Ibiza staying at Ushuaia; an adults only hotel with a day and evening nightclub in the grounds that offers it’s guests on arrival bottled oxygen and an erotic kit, consisting of vibrator and lubricant, meant that I really should have told him to go ‘be lucky’ elsewhere.

club3 club2 club

I actually have no problem with places like Ushuaia, but at 43? I went to places like that when I was in my 20’s and early 30’s.

I’m also still not sure what he was doing with his male friend in a room that looked like this.


Sucking up only oxygen one would hope?


I was, however, quite taken by his e-mails, we had been in regular contact for over three months and he was handsome, witty, humorous and intelligent and he also seemed to ‘get me’. I was curious as to why he hadn’t been snatched up by some other shrewd female.

So, he lands back in Sydney, with, I calculated, possibly four ‘erotic kits’ on his person and I was excited with the prospect of meeting this Mockney fellow and finding out what made him tick. I had actually grown quite fond of him.

And so…….I waited to hear from him…………..and I waited…………..and I waited…………

…………and I waited a little bit more.

……and then even more….

(another red flag one thinks?).

(Maybe he was preoccupied with his multiple erotic kit after having spent 24 hours cooped up at the front of the plane with them?)

Finally he contacted me on FB to simply say ‘hello’. Me, being the sort of straight forward common sense person thought, ‘OK, let’s take this to the next stage and talk’, so I suggested that he called me. The message was ‘seen’; and to my surprise there was no response and again I was waiting, waiting, waiting……..

So……… a moment of frustration, and I would like to think clarity, I wrote ‘chickenshit’, blocked him on FB and turned my phone off – Humph!

Apparently that vexed him. He was angry at being called a chicken shit. So what did he do? Nothing. He sat on his bachelor couch watching his beloved Arsenal play while eating the Walnut Whips I’d politely requested he bring back from the UK.

arsenal walnut-whip

Anyway, we cleared the air and not wanting to get into the finer details, we did eventually catch up when he wasn’t ‘seeing a man about a dog’.

(He was ALWAYS seeing a man about a dog).

Our two dinner dates were surprisingly pleasant; although he did spend a disproportionate amount of time looking at other women and he most certainly enjoyed flashing his Rolex and black Amex. By the second date he felt comfortable enough to tell me that he found me ‘passive aggressive’ and that it jarred his ‘sensitivity’.

I’ve been called a few things in my life, but never ‘passive aggressive’. To be honest I had to tipsily wobble to the posh restaurant toilets to Google the meaning and find out that it meant I was hostile, stubborn and sullen with possible ‘daddy issues’. What a kick in the teeth that was. I always thought I was side splittingly funny with a steak of sarcasm.

It was, however, a pleasant evening, marred only by my supposed aggression.

So, mindful of my new mental illness I agreed on a third date and this time at his home. I considered a snoop around his residence would at least uncover a few mysteries of this totally puzzling bachelor.

This is what I saw:

  • The Morrissey Autobiography. He had apparently spent two days in bed reading it. At university I had always found that anyone keen on Morrissey, or The Smiths, was typically a posh leftie student whose idea of being a rebel was to be late to mum’s Sunday dinner.
  • Photographs on his fridge of Mr Mockney in his late 20’s partying and I quote; ‘time of my life that was, Ibiza, September 1997 with Dave, Mark and Andy etc.’.
  • Nothing in the fridge; unless a bottle of champagne counts as nutrition.
  • A dusty guitar in the bedroom that needed tuning.
  • Bongos.
  • And, the pièce de résistance, some wheels of steel or the ‘one and twos’ twin mixing decks in his front room. These monsters were positioned on a stage and took over a very large section of the room. It was a mini disco.


Me, nervously, ‘shall we have a cup of tea?’, as I sat there anxiously waiting for the four vibrators to make an entrance. At one point I even asked if he could DJ for me. Ha!

Anyway, off he popped to America and I still naively thought there would be ‘some’ communication. He sent one e-mail saying he was thinking of relocating to Austin, Texas to open a record shop. A week later I received a picture of him firing a small gun at a range with the singular comment ‘innit’.

You can imagine I’d had enough by then.

I’m not going to publish the whole e-mail that I sent in reply to his gun photo, but it started like this:

‘This went to my junk mail.

Not sure what you want me to say.

Maybe next time you can aim at your head?

Anyway, I’ve just checked my “things to do” list. Wallpapering the inside of my fridge was right at the top of the list, unfortunately giving a toss about you isn’t there. You want to find yourself? I can tell you exactly where you are; Right up your own arse.’

I then finished it as follows:

‘I’ve attached a little Venn diagram just in case any other the above is unclear, or, if your hangover/ego means that comprehension of the above is impossible.




I do so like using the word Sayonara.

In the aftermath I’ve tried defining that he actually was. He was a complete oxymoron. Mr Mockney was ‘Libman’, a well-read middle class leftie that was well intentioned at times, although rather intense, and this was polarised by his ‘Man Child’ tendances where he was clearly rooted in a particular stage of his life; Still ‘the lad’, up for a pint and permanently engaged in holding middle age at bay.

Anyway, I’m going to call him ‘LibManChild’………….


I’m just gutted that he stuffed his face with my Walnut Whips.


Make Up, Miley Cyrus and ‘That’ Troubled Towel….

My next door neighbour cleaned his house out in August and gave my three year old a Hannah Montana beach towel that belonged to his young daughter. Ironically he gave it to me the day after Miley Cyrus infamously ‘Twerked’ at the MTV awards.miley

We both had a bit of a dry giggle about this.

When my daughter saw the towel she was absolutely thrilled:

‘Ahhhh, look mummy’, she said, ‘a princess’.

‘Certainly darling’, I said…………………(rolling eyes) as I started to cook dinner.

Anyway, yesterday I was cleaning my house and my daughter was suspiciously quiet, and, anyone with children knows that this immediately means they are up to no good.

And she was……………

There she was with my makeup bag in hand, lipstick, nail polish, eyeliner, mascara everywhere.

She had even attempted to apply some make-up to her face.

11 13 14 15 19 20 21

Oh well, it could have been worse, I thought, as I took these photographs.

Then my daughter she did something really strange.  She started doing the Miley Cyrus signature tongue pose!

GT1  3 4 2 miley-cyrus-tongue-nyc-twitter imagesCA0RST15 imagesCAF03EFE


Other than THAT towel my daughter has never seen Miley Cyrus, Hannah Montana or the MTV awards. I have no idea what influenced her to start posing like that.

It’s the towel, it’s the towel!  It’s possessed my child!  My head was screaming!

Anyway, I’m just thankful she didn’t start ‘Twerking’.

The ‘troubled’ towel is now in the bin.

The Joys of Being ‘Shafted’ While Having Botox….

I had Botox done yesterday, I know, I know, vain, but I’m beginning to look like the before and after meth ads; and my ‘dishevelled looks’ are not due to a drug addiction.



That’s not me, but I look worse than that.  Being a sleep deprived single mum with two kids has definitely taken it’s toll.

At the appointment I immediately recognised that ‘Mrs Doctor Botox’ was a peculiar lady but I was willing to ignore this character trait because I had heard ‘she was good’.

On finding out I was a single mum with two small children she cocked her head to one side and said,

‘How do you cope?’

I gave my standard answer, ‘I just do’. Giving the impression of being a strong, independent woman.

In truth, however, what I really wanted to say to her was; ‘What the f*ck do you think I do? Put my kids in a cardboard box with a sandwich when I want my own space? Of course I’m not coping. Please just shut the f*ck up, do your job, please inject the shit out of my forehead so at least I can pretend I look happy and then I can get back to work’.

She gave me one of those self-satisfied smiles and said;

‘I was lucky, I had au pairs’.

I mean, honestly, what can I say to that?

Me, pretending to gush, ‘Oh you were sooooo lucky’

Smiles. Awkward silence.

Anyway, Mrs Doctor Botox told me to lie down and start breathing in the gas. I mean come on, I’ve needed laughing gas to cope with some of the painful little pricks I’ve dated in the past but surely it’s not required for this simple procedure?

It was, however, offered so I sucked that gas down and immediately felt numb and giggly. Niceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.

Then, Mrs Doctor Botox did something very strange, while injecting my head she started talking about having a lift installed in her new property, ‘it’s good to have a nice long shaft’, she said, followed by, ‘it’s important that the shaft goes in really nice and deep’.

And….even more bizarre was that each time she said the word ‘shaft’ she emphasized it.


You know those moments in time when you wonder ‘am I dreaming this?’.  At first I wasn’t really sure if it was the gas, but knew it wasn’t.  I really don’t know why I attract them, but I have always been a magnet for nut jobs all my life. When I lived in London, I could guarantee that any mental case on the tube would find me….even if they had boarded the train two carriages down.

Anyway, there’s no results yet.  I understand I have to wait four days for any ‘movement’ so am guessing that by the weekend I’m either going to be looking remarkably ‘fresh’, emerge like Herman Munster with a furrowed brow or have to study lifts so I can go back to Mrs Doctor Botox and actually join in her ‘shaft’ conversation for some follow up work.



I have visions of Mrs Doctor Botox yesterday evening having a cup of tea with her husband;

‘I did that shafting conversation with a new client today’. Gosh I do love talking random shit to a client when they are on the laughing gas’.

‘Slinky Gate’, Boy Wonder and a Broken Taj Mahal Snow Globe….


Boy Wonder, my sons father, has always been socially awkward and a bit ‘peculiar’ when it comes to buying gifts. I put it down to his upbringing.  He told me he grew up with one of those families that ‘don’t do birthdays, Christmas or any celebration, just the occasional ‘tasty treat’ (while rubbing hands with glee).

To top it all, the family don’t drink alcohol, which in itself is fine (everyone to their own), but his mother would proffer ‘Appletise’ and fizzy raspberry water at the dinner table saying, ‘Red or white wine?’.

You can’t fool me with that non-alcoholic rubbish!

‘Mrs Boy Wonder’ was a lovely lady and she had a remarkable fixation with microwave cooking, baking Betty Crocker packet mix ‘tasty treats’ and buying gadgets that do two or more jobs rather than its original purpose.  From what I could see she had never cooked a meal unless it was created in a microwave. I have visions of ‘Mrs Boy Wonder’ nuking the family meals in five minutes flat, knocking back her Appletise, and in giddy excitement spending the rest of the evening rearranging her Dymo labelled Tupperware while her 3 iRobot Roomba 500 Series cleaned the floor.

Anyway, while we were dating (that’s me and Boy Wonder, not me and his mother) I celebrated Valentine’s Day. I say ‘I celebrated’ because I purchased new lingerie, tarted myself up and spent hours looking for the perfect present and card for him.

Unlike my attempts to be romantic, Boy Wonder bought me a slinky, some stickers that smelt of pizza and forgot dinner.  Romantic.

Yes, I repeat, it was a slinky and pizza stickers that look like this………….


‘Slinky Gate’ I call it. That day I knew we were finished.  Then I found out I was pregnant. We split and Boy Wonder is now a father to a little eight month old boy, my son.

Boy Wonder is completely out of his comfort zone being a dad, but he does buy his son some fantastic gifts. I’ve Instagramed them here in an attempt to make them look appealing. I do suspect, however, that most are ‘last minute’ acquisitions.

Trip to Thailand (definitely Bangkok Airport)

  • Thai nail clippers, just what every 6 month old baby needs.


  • Thai elephant snow globe, complete with severed trunk.

ele eleh

Trip to India: (Terminus unknown)

  • Taj Mahal snow globe, minus glittery snow, water or even the plastic casing. (Boy Wonder smashed it in his suitcase).


  • Sparkly sari with glitter attached by ‘Indian spit’. You may have seen the shimmering dust storm in Sydney when it was taken out of my washer?

Here is my son in complete awe of the razor-sharp snow globe in his glittery onesie that was washed with the sari.


I’m not being ungrateful at all and Boy Wonder is not short of cash; of course it helps when you have a family that doesn’t drink alcohol.  In conclusion I suspect Boy Wonders emotional/social cells were probably damaged with all the childhood microwave radiation he received from his mother’s cooking.

Anyway, my son can’t wait for his dads next overseas trip….careful son, don’t cut yourself….


The Mummy and Her Milestone – Yawn….

It was officially Sydney’s last day of winter yesterday and it was a beautiful one, around 26 deg. My weekends are pretty simple really, I try and relax (impossible) and usually take the children to Sydney’s Botanical Gardens where my daughter typically finds a new friend to play with, amuses herself with her kite, feeds the ducks and eels (yes eels) or chases bubbles.

Here she is running up towards the park.


There is a usual cross mix of families that come to these gardens on any given day. I find that the ‘standard’ family (what is standard?) generally do not want to be interrupted by my daughter during their own weekend ‘family time’. I acknowledge and respect that. By default my daughter generally lands up playing with other children of single parents. I am sure that’s because we are both simply grateful for some ‘time out’.

‘Keep running around dear daughter, yes, keep running, faster and faster’.

Yesterday I experienced ‘suburban family visiting the city’. You can spot them from a mile off, lots of food in cling film, Crocs, an overuse of Disney branding, large floral hair accessories and a pram worth more than my car. They were feeding the ducks when my daughter asked if she could play with their children.

The mothers first comment was:

‘How old is your daughter?’
Me, ‘Hello, how are you?  She’s three and a half’.
Her, ‘Oh, Madison-Lee-Jane is three. My daughter is a lot taller than yours and she’s younger. She’s very tall and quite advanced for her age.’
Me, ‘errmmmm, yes’, I said, frowning (I so need botox).

I felt very sad looking at my small ‘challenged’ daughter grinning at me inanely in her cheap $15 dress from China and chocolate all over her face.

I’ve never really understood these ‘milestones’ figuring that should my children not be walking, eating solids, speaking, writing or anything that I/my doctor would consider ‘normal’; then there may be a problem and I’ll flag it appropriately.

Besides my daughter isn’t a midget and I believe she is reaching all the correct milestones.

Anyway, I took a look at the father, he looked like a right wanker. A sweeping statement I know, but I could tell, I’ve dated 80% of them.

His ‘tall’ three year old then threw the ducks bread into the water but it landed on the grass instead. (ha! She’s not that clever afterall). My daughter politely picked it up off the grass and gave it back to her. Wanky Dad snatched it out of his daughters hand and proceeded to throw it, by himself, to the ducks. Selfish prick. His wife, clearly embarrassed (well you married him love, suck it up sunshine, you both have Crocs on), pleaded with him to give a piece of the bread to the kids so they could join in the fun. He eventually relented and gave each child, including my daughter, a piece of bread no larger than 2mm square.

Who did he think he was Mr Bumble from Oliver?

‘Please sir, can I have some more?’.

What a miserable bastard.

Talk about milestones.

I felt like saying to the mother;

‘Your daughter may be taller but your husband is still stuck at the emotional level of an eight year old’.

…………..but I didn’t.

Some days I am very grateful to be by myself.

On another note, it’s Father’s Day today, so I was going to paint a moustache on my face to celebrate.  Unfortunately this doesn’t seem to be required as it appears that I am quite capable of producing one myself naturally these days.

Ho hum….

Internet Dating….The odds and good, but the goods are odd!

With two young children it is near impossible to get out on dates or even meet a partner, and, to be honest it’s the last thing on my mind right now. My hearts really not in it and the thought of having to get ready, find a babysitter, shave my legs and do my hair etc., just for a date,  seems like too much hard work. I do, however, live in hope that I will meet someone eventually and, as most people say, you meet the right person when you are least looking. Problem is, most women seem to meet their husbands at work and, as I work from home, it looks like I’m going to be hooking up with a home invader….

In view of the fact that I am ‘home invader-less’ right now I’ve done a bit of internet dating and a guy through my work also wants to be ‘friends’. The catch is internet dating seems to work on the premise that ‘The odds are good, but the goods are odd’ and the man through work is also the ‘married but she doesn’t understand me and we stay together for the kids sake’ type. Oh yawn. I am most certainly not going there. I have always found it quite strange why anyone would stay together for the sake of the children. It so old school and ‘twin set and pearls’ quaint. I couldn’t think of anything worse than going home and sharing a house, eating dinner with and jumping into bed with someone I secretly disliked.  It would totally stop me from having regular bowel movements.

Anyway, the funny thing is, constipation aside, the more I ignore the internet suitors and the married men, the more they persevere. Today I was contacted by an old married friend on FB, it was 2.30am in the UK, ‘I’m just up late and feeling horny’, he said, ‘Shall we Skype or Snapchat?’. Of course I declined with a ‘get f*cked’ and before I de-friended him I quickly checked out his FB wall.  It’s his wife’s 30th birthday this weekend and she’s expecting a diamond ring from him. When he’s singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to her I’ll try and interrupt it with a ‘Snap Chat’ session. See how much he likes that, wanker.  (There’s also a lump of coal, diamond, constipation joke there too, isn’t there?).

Anyhow, as far as internet dating goes there is currently ‘Boy Woy’ and a promising ‘Mockney Lawyer’ that appears to ‘get me’.

The last ten unsolicited texts from ‘BoyWoy’ ended as follows; ‘I’ve had a few wines…Think I want you’, this was accompanied by a selfie in his bedroom, thankfully clothed, in three quarter length camo cargo pants and way too much hair gel.  Come to think of it; naked may have been an improvement. Yawn.

The last e-mail from the promising hot ‘Mockey Lawyer’ used the word ‘nomenclature’ in it and, I’m going to sound really uneducated here, I didn’t have the faintest idea what he was going on about so had to Wickipedia it. Can you date someone that you have to Wickipedia? Shit, if there’s no internet connection I’ll have to carry a dictionary and thumb through it secretly in the toilet.

More to follow….

Everest at Lunch Time….


We had lunch with ‘Boy Wonder’, my sons father, this week. We were served by a beautiful Nepalese lady that works at the café and she is from Kathmandu.

My conversation with ‘Boy Wonder’ went as follows:

Me, ‘that lady is from Kathmandu’.
Boy Wonder with blank expression, ‘why is she working here?’.
Me, ‘because this is her job’
Boy Wonder (still looking gormless), ‘but why is she not working in Kathmandu?’
Me (taking a deep breath), ‘because she works here and that’s a long way to travel each day to work in a cafe’.
Boy Wonder (even more confused), ‘but isn’t Kathmandu a shop?’
Me, ‘Are you kidding me? Yes it is a shop but it is also a place in Nepal too’.
Boy Wonder, ‘really?’
Me, (big sigh), ‘yes, there’s also a great big bloody mountain near it too’……………….

His answer?

BoyWonder ‘really?’

I don’t know what I am more mortified about, the fact that I had sex with this man or the reality that my son could inherit his brain.