Girl's Column: Violet de Capote Interne

I spent a while this week going back over the last year’s columns (it can be done via the archive, just ask one of my hapless half-boyfriends who, after finding out about this column, read a history of my love life over one boring afternoon at work and turned up for our date full of drunk insecurities and advice...).

Three years on the single London scene could potentially have hardened me to a life of man-hating, cats and aggressive sports teams. Certainly, if the likes of Older Man, Good Time Guy and Mr DJ could be considered as prime cuts of London meat I’d be running for the Watford Gap shouting, ‘I’ll take Quorn, or anything!’. However, there have been some real gems that, if I had the real inclination to cast my net properly, would have made really nice adornments. If anything, it’s just prepared me for the worst, to be pleasantly surprised, and also not to take anything either personally or seriously. 

Looking at my friends in relationships, they tend to be little weird capsule partnerships that other people can’t quite understand, but work. I think that point comes when you stop thinking ‘Oh dear, scary...’ and start thinking 'I wonder what you’ve been up to today’. Just hopefully never ‘Of course we can’t go to that party, it’s the X Factor results show tonight!’

Ideally I’ll end up as non-domesticated as Mama De Capote Interne, who regularly rings me with bizarre updates in retirement: ‘Eh, Violet ma petit-chou, I’m having a learn at le vacuum, it’s noisy! You should try it!’.

I’d have to be dragged kicking and screaming into committment at this point, by a guy who’d say yes to my mad ideas like ‘let’s learn Czech and move to Prague!’ or ‘I want to quit my job and learn the guitar!’ Finding Mr Perfectly Mental in the weeks notice to write this final column would have been quite a feat, but I think it’s feasible within the next ten years. Or fifteen. Or however long, I’m not counting...