click here for original post or read more on Ritzi Cortez

I’ve been thinking about this recently. Someone once said to me, that I’d never find love in London. At the time I scoffed (I was young and naive) and replied that OF COURSE I would, what better place to meet a man than the most overcrowded city in the country? Surely I’d have to strike lucky eventually.

I think I may have to hunt that person down and slap them for being so bloody prophetic. Turns out, London really is a fecking horrendous place to meet boys. But what’s even worse, is that even if by some kind of miracle, we do happen to meet a boy who is not a complete and utter twatbag, we’re so busy that we don’t seem to actually have the time to devote to a proper grown up relationship.

I mused on this back on Feb 14th, as CTS (of 52 First Dates fame) and I shared a half litre of wine and far too much pizza, putting the world to rights against a backdrop of cheesy Valentine romance.

‘I just don’t know how I’d fit a man into my life at the moment,’ I admitted. ‘At the moment, my life consists of a full on career gal job, press nights and previews galore, an Open University course, excessive gym bunny action (which is doing a proper number on my ass so I’m not giving that up), a heckload of writing, THE BLOG, and my girlfriends. Where exactly does a boy fit in? I know ‘The One’ is supposed to come along when you least expect it, but the downside to that is that you’re so ill-equipped to accommodate him that you’re likely to fuck it up and lose him.

CTS countered with a snippet of wisdom of her own. ‘I’ve spent nine years ‘least expecting it’ and nothing. Speaking as someone who is going for quantity rather than quality at the moment…’

CTS is going on one date a week for a whole year. She’s kissed a LOT of frogs so far. I don’t know if I’d have the energy to sift through all the crap to find something I’m not entirely sure exists in this town.

Maybe I’d become one of those women who forgets her girlfriends when she’s happy in a relationship. Maybe I wouldn’t write as much. Maybe I’d stop blogging. Maybe I’d let myself get fat. Maybe I’d LEAVE LONDON.

None of these options sound particularly preferable to me…

Do we crazy ass Londoners have time in our schedules for love?

I’m not sure we do.

That’s a bloody depressing thought.