Boys are rubbish. And err, so are girls.

We've all done it.

Fed up of looking at a silent phone screen, or on a birthday eve where the taxi takes your hopeful face to the local Pizza Express rather than Heathrow Departures, we've all let out an internal yell of "BOYS ARE RUBBISH".

However, there have been several historical instances recorded where girls are the ones being a bit rubbish. And by 'instances' I mean once, and by 'girls', I mean me.

Put it this way. The complete lack of date and boy talk around here isn't because I've come across all prudish. It's not even because the offers aren't there. It's because I'm just being bloody useless.

You'd think that after seven months of singledom, I'd at least be capable of saying 'yes' to going for a drink with someone. The South African had tracked me down on Facebook, and we'd been messaging each other for a couple of weeks after meeting at a friend's birthday. And then last week, at the end of a trademark long reply, he asked if I'd like to go for a drink.

At which point, my enthusiasm froze. Things were about to take a step from virtual to real, and I got The Fear. 

The initial delay in responding was because I was drunk when I received the message. And when you're drunk you tend to think most things are a wonderful idea. So what with me being a bit Sensible Cedric, I decided to wait until my head wasn't skipping through a paddling pool of cider and reply the next day.

But the next day was Friday, and I was all woe is jobless me about everything apart from chocolate and cuddling Labradors. So choosing moping solitude over potential romance, I didn't reply. 

Then Future Housemates threw a massive party complete with lasers and huge speakers and a Jager bar and letters warning the neighbours and phone calls from the Noise Police, and everything seemed like a bloody good idea again. A drink! A mere drink! I can drink! Look at me, all drinking 'n' that! But knowing that my judgement was heavily clouded by Jagermeister combined with a 35p Red Bull substitute called Emerge, I concluded that yet again, this was probably not a wise time to reply.

So I didn't.

The next day I had a big hangover. I was very, very tired from the two hours spent attempting to sleep on a completely flat air bed on a kitchen floor next to a bucket and a diabetic friend who, hours earlier, we'd tried to force feed a wrap containing only Heinz Salad Cream. At that point, nothing apart from being in close proximity to a bed and toilet seemed like a good idea. So I went to sleep, and didn't reply.

Then it was Monday, and four days had passed. "Eek. That's awkward. And a bit rude of me." thought I, before confounding that self assessment by not sending a reply.

Along came Tuesday. And having talked myself round to the possibility that a drink could just be a drink, and it could be quite nice, and he does seem quite nice, and oh, that is a rather nice message that I've just left unanswered for five days...nice nice nice, I replied. With a yes, here's some dates I could do (which was all of them for forever, because I'm a jobless wonder), and my phone number because "evidently", I japed, "I'm a bit rubbish at replying on Facebook!"

Ha! Haha! Ha....ha. Ha?

Well, that was Tuesday, now it's Friday. And tumbleweed doth blow.

So the lesson is that sometimes, girls can be just as rubbish as boys.

And sometimes, we bloody deserve it.