I don’t want to brag, but I would be the perfect girlfriend; for you see I have completely lost my voice. And in my experience most blokes are ideally looking for a silent partner… not that my Australian twang has not entranced numerous men over the years.

I haven’t been able to talk for four days…not even to order Chinese.  Sadly however there hasn’t been a man in my flat to appreciate the silence (assuming of course that the man who came to read my gas meter doesn’t count.) This is probably for the best, as there is definitely a correlation between how lousy I am feeling and how unattractive the underwear I sport is.

It would be quite nice to have someone around to look after me. I have this romantic fantasy where a topless brute drops Strepsils into my mouth, and when I can’t take it anymore, he lovingly blows my nose for me. Who says romance is dead? Of course this topless brute would first have to go shopping for me, as I ran out of both tissues and Strepsils two days ago, and I simply cannot face the thought of walking 50 metres to the shops. Please note this has nothing to do with the fact that I am not feeling well; I find it hard to get out of my pyjamas at the best of times. But this week it is even less likely that I will put on an item of clothing that doesn’t have little piggies or flowers on it.

I now realise that the furthest I have walked in four days is to the front door to collect the mail (bills.)  This does not bode well for my commitment to look after my health, now that I am getting on a bit. This prompts me to look in the mirror and I realise that I am now an even paler shade of white than I was before my illness kicked in. I make a mad dash for a bottle of my beloved Holiday Skin, in a feeble attempt to cover up the fact that I am not only ill but also that I have been living in the UK for five years now.

I ponder when I should pick up the phone to an ex and ask him to come and bring me some soup, but I am unable to think of a man that I have dated who would want to see me regain the use of my voice box. In fact I suspect that they would all chip in to buy me a muzzle.

I toy with the idea of registering on an internet dating site, and inviting eligible men in their thirties to come and look lovingly into my blood shot eyes. I have never worn Ugg boots on a first date; this maybe where I have been going wrong.  The tribute on my head to Suzi Quatro may also not be helping my cause either.

In the end I decide to wait till I am feeling myself before I try and pick up a bloke; I need to be feeling on top form to catch them… when they inevitably try to run away.


Sally Beerworth