Mme Mojo

"Well it's bit like this..."

Chirac stirs his risotto and looks over at me, unconvincingly.

"...at this age, you dont really miss it. Really."

He reaches over to sprinkle some pepper in the pot.

"At least, " he shrugs his shoulders, "you can still imagine what it feels like, so technically you need never have to have it again..."

We both look glumly at the rain outside.

We're talking, of course, about "it".
My va va voom, my zha zha zha, my pizzazz.

My Mme Mojo.

It seems the fucker has made a detour and got lost somewhere, leaving me stranded in the heartland of chastity.

There have been a few attempts to try and reign her back in; a few furtive, coy glances at an attractive man in the pub. The start of a conversation. But as my heart wasn't in it, the follow through was utterly unconvincing, I just couldn't be bothered.

And after Brooky's observation that my pickiness was bordering on a future of spinsterhood, I signed up to match.com to get back into the dating game (and not just for something to blog about) - and was promptly inundated with offers of companionship from balding, overweight 40 something men.
I ruthlessly narrowed my match field - only to be rewarded with more offers from lonely divorcees and the odd 'perfect match'. I dated one of these odd perfect matches, who was perfectly nice and interesting and who sent me a Valentine.
But it just wasn't there, I felt nothing. No butterflies. No stirrings. Nada. Rien. Zip. Passion kaput.

Mme Mojo just slumbered on.

So I say, let her rest. I'm fairly distracted enough with the big old move, which is actually happening faster than I can organise. And my sister, The Gorgeous, has promised to throw a martini party on my return; so what better opportunity to woo, to shine, to flirt, to capitalise on my ever so slightly English accent amongst all those Canadian men?!

So I say, Mme Mojo, rest yourself. For you shall soon be very very busy indeed.