Now I realize that the title of this piece would make some of you more fundamentalist dykes quiver in your steel-toed army boots but no, that in-bed-with-a-cactus thing just doesn't do it for me, so I feel obliged to get rid of my own leg-prickles periodically. I am, however, not all that particular about how often, especially during the dry seasons (and that doesn't just mean a Joburg winter!).

So the routine goes something like this……………….

Rush home after a long night of sitting opposite the woman in question, agonising over whether she is even vaguely interested in me and, not being very sussed with the dating game, trying to work out how I'm going to meet this delectable dyke again.

On arriving home at 3 a.m., I immediately call my friend who has just spent the past few hours observing my pre-possible-relationship angst with not very well-hidden amusement. As she answers the phone with a yawn and a hint of irritation in her voice, I launch into my tirade like Penny Heyns into an olympic swimming pool. (A cute dyke - even though she's in denial) ` So do you think she likes me? Do you think it's worth even worrying about? Did she tell you anything about how she felt? Did you see the way she looked at me? Did she say anything to the others? Do you think this could work out?'……….and so it goes on until I realise that I might as well be talking to the Dyke calender on my wall for all the input I'm getting from my, now snoring, friend on the other side of the phone.

Then it's coffee time, with the sobering thought that I have to be at work by 7:00 am (now only 3 hours away), looking, preferably, like I spent a quiet evening at bible study looking for my future husband, not like I spent the entire night out at a club with half of Joburg's lesbian population.

Then I sidle past the mirror, taking just a peek to see whether this bod would pass the same personal physical appraisal used on all potential girlfriends. I sidle past again with my coffee, slower this time, thinking that all that running I'm doing just is not firming me up the way it should be. Then I take a close-up and contemplate the fact that, at the tender age of 24, I have my first few grey hairs from having to pay provisional tax, some well-developed love-handles (from an addiction to Greek shortbread) and shoulders that would make the Ama-blomme-blomme proud.

Only two hours now, from the time I have to arrive at work looking glowing and responsible. I think that a red-bull and a hot bath might be more useful than and hour of lying awake trying to list the pros and cons of moving into a new relationship.

From months of studying the power of intention setting and positive thinking, I take a spare towel out of the linen cupboard while running my bath. I absent-mindedly (Ha!) dust ornaments and bits of furniture around the flat while taking the long route back to the coffee machine before my bath. I throw all the empty bottles of foam bath and shampoo away and quickly re-hang the net curtain that's drooping hazardously in the bathroom. I turn the bath taps off before the bath overflows (because I've just spent another half hour changing the sheets, cleaning out the fridge and washing the dishes - first impressions count!) and lower myself into the steamy water, allowing the excitement of having someone new in my life to wash over me.

I've hit the point of no return - the one where you can only think of the pros - no cons: she's clever, witty, we like the same food, we both love running, she has no known mental illness and doesn't take hallucinogenic drugs, she likes cats and her hair does not resemble a traffic light on `E'. She's perfect!

Yes, I think as I grapple with the age-old feminist issue of loving one's own body-hair - I could even commit to shaving my legs regularly for this one………….this could be serious!

The views and opinions expressed in this publication, are not necessarily the viewpoints on Womyn Ink. Publishers or its staff.