‘I should probably take up yoga,’ I said to my cosmetic doctor, during my appointment for a second round of Botox to cure my nighttime teeth grinding habit.
‘Just keep drinking whisky and you can visit me,’ he flashed his white smile (I’d admitted that I was a little hungover when he showed me the dreaded blown-up before-and-after photos on his iMac).
The botox injections take about five seconds so my good-looking, charming doctor spends approximately 30 minutes flirting with me in his smart clinic overlooking the park to make up for the small fortune I spend on each vanity appointment. He is very open about how much he enjoys his job, which is refreshing.
‘Trustafarian only admitted he knew that I started grinding my teeth years ago after you told me about it,’ I mentioned to the doctor. ‘He said he was too scared to tell me in case he was the cause of it.’
‘It doesn’t sound like having a boyfriend is particularly good for your health,’ he reasoned.
‘I guess it would be good to have a boyfriend to see if the botox has worked,’ I said, following the injections.
‘Oh no, that’s not necessary,’ he replied, feeling my jaw line. ‘One more injection on the right side in a few months’ time should do the trick.’
Like me, my friend Nina has dated too many frogs for too long. ‘I deleted Tinder for the 29th time… Or something like that,’ she said when we caught up over Facebook. We both already know what we’ll be doing for the second weekend in February 2016. I’ll be going to interactive pop-up supper club Gingerline’s Chamber of Flavours with Liz while Nina has booked a yoga retreat in Bali. ‘Perhaps I’m running away from Valentine’s,’ she said. ‘But how far can I run…’
‘I know a great whisky bar we should check out,’ I responded.
