Panic not.

Rebound.

The word hangs around a break-up like fox shit on my Labradors. Everyone expects you to have a rebound, and any subsequent pair-up following the demise of your last relationship is heralded to be one.

The break up seems ages ago, and only a check of a calendar reminds me that it's not even been two months since those three little words (the wrong ones) were thrown across a dark bedroom, and not even a month that I've been free of the flat. While others might have found this ample time to scour a bar and find a new beau, for me, filling the void left by my Bastard Ex hasn't even been on the radar.

In fact, there are blokes in London who will probably have my death stare etched on their faces, given how strongly I've thrown back their advances.

Then I start accepting an invitation to a boy's house. A boy who initiated the first tentative flirty contact I've had in a good few months. Contact that was both comforting and uncomfortable all at once. Contact that made me think "phew, I'm not a hideous monster" while at the time time being a bit awkward, a bit "oh, hello. I don't really know you, and your head is on my lap."

No one needs to tell me to be careful. My mind did - does - that for me. It goes "shit the bed, I hope he doesn't bloody kiss me", not because I don't find him attractive, intelligent and interesting, but because it's only been two months since the last attractive, intelligent and interesting bloke shattered my view on things. You say just enjoy it. I say right now, I'm not looking for a relationship - rebound, fling, whatever - to enjoy.

The problem is that accepting mid-week cinema dates tends to give the impression otherwise.

And that's probably something I need to work on.