I woke up on the other side of the bed on Sunday morning. This was not because I was so drunk the night before I didn’t remember which side of the bed I usually sleep on. No, I fear it was because I have become comfortable. So comfortable in single life that I now sleep on whatever side of the bed I want too. This is a new development. And it is a worry.

In the nearly three years that I have been mainly single – which means sans a serious relationship that  involves regular sleepovers at both party’s abodes – I have religiously stuck to “my side” of the bed, even though there is no one in the space beside me.

I sleep on the left-side of the bed (that is, if you are standing at the foot of the bed and looking at the bed – which would be very creepy if I was to catch you doing so while I was sleeping). I don’t know why I sleep on this side. I just tried to do some research on this very important social phenomenon and some people say that women sleep on the side that is farthest from the door, which in my case is true.

Perhaps this is so the big, bold, strong man who is guaranteed to be beside you can protect you from intruders or for those of us who regularly sleep alone, it gives you enough time to grab the baseball bat that is surreptitiously hidden under the bed to smash them over the head with it.

When I woke up on the right-hand side of the bed on Sunday morning I must admit I was momentarily confused – which is not the first time such a turn of events has happened to me on a Sunday morning. I looked around and the room looked very different. The dimensions were all wrong. The wardrobe was too close and the curtains were too far away. My first reaction was to smile. I was kind of happy that I had finally crossed a divide where I had obviously been waiting for someone to fill the space beside me.

But as the day wore on, I became more uneasy. I no longer felt joyous about writhing alone on the wrong side of the bed. No, I felt the fear. The fear that I had resigned myself to a single life so wholeheartedly that I no longer needed to keep that special space available for a man who I can love.

That side of the bed has been empty since May last year. If I’d known then that it was the last time that the man who’d captured more than my attention would ever sleep in it, maybe I would never have let him leave. Or maybe I wouldn’t have pushed, knowing that he would push back. Or perhaps I would have learnt earlier that he had nothing left to give. And that was not enough for me. I think he always knew that.

I know that I am not afraid of my bed being empty, but I am not going to get used to it being so either. Stuff that. So after six months of no dating and of pretending I don’t need love, I declare that I am ready. I am back on the market. I am a fucken catch. Possible suitors will preferably have their own teeth (and not mind that I will soon have braces on mine), have a job, and also a massive, stimulating intellect. Those interested can apply within.

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