"You're mended" came the PIB's assessment, as we sat in a cocktail bar late on Saturday night.
The weekend had been full of the things I like best: zipping around London, meeting new friends and catching up with old ones. Friday night was spent in the company of Future Housemate and later, some of her (male) friends; one of whom had caught my eye and attention from the start.
"Look at me all talking to boys 'n' that!" I'd exclaimed excitedly to the PIB the following night, "He's probably got a girlfriend, and he's probably really young. But we talked a bit. And he was lovely".
Ok, so it's just talking - hardly a string of illicit dates or marriage, not even texts - but it was nice to feel normal again. In fact, the entire weekend had felt exactly how being single in London should feel: exciting and full of endless possibilities. The broken heart a vague memory in the distance, well and truly mended.
So when the e-mail popped into my inbox on Monday night as I pottered around on the internet - a name I hadn't seen bolded and unread in there since last March - I wasn't really prepared for the zap of panic that came over me.
Here it was then, the long awaited contact. No subject line to determine what it might contain. What's he e-mailing me for? My heart started racing as I stared at my inbox. How should I reply? Should I just delete it? Why now?
The reasons for the above became clear seconds after I took a deep breath and opened the e-mail. And there it was in all its glory: a spam link. Hurrah for the ironies of modern technology; after a year of no contact, my ex boyfriend was sending me links to porn.
Don't check the other e-mail addresses to see if her name's there. Don't. Don't. Don't.
Oh, fuck it.
Click "more". And sure enough, among the other lucky recipients was her name, too.
After a few minutes of staring at the e-mail, my heart beat returned to normal. Just spam. I pressed delete.
But when the second e-mail arrived today at lunch time, in the midst of a day where the to-do list was getting longer while the working week was getting shorter, it knocked me back again, and I took myself outside for a walk.
It felt faintly ridiculous to be teetering on the verge of emotion in Pret over an e-mail about, well, absolutely nothing at all - a warning to undisclosed recipients not to click on any links in my previous e-mail, his e-mail got hacked, thanks.
It felt stupid to feel slightly disappointed that it wasn't just to me, apologies with a by-the-way how are you.
It was alien to see his name come up and his words on the screen - no matter how impersonal they were.
And it's a strange thing to admit when you're an advocate of being single, taking what life throws at you and being happy with it, that you might actually want someone else now. Because deep down, you know a ridiculous spam e-mail sent to an entire address book wouldn't bother you so much if another person was on the scene.
Can you ever really get mended until you've moved on to someone else?