Love in the Bubble — Issue 284

Reader, as I write this love column, I am increasingly conscious of my word count, for being in this town, one finds it hard to write a substantial piece on love and relationships; as Sabrina Carpenter puts it, “it’s slim pickins.” And yet when the well isn’t running dry, my ill-fated love life seems to be surrounded by one name and one name only: Tom. And Tom is not one person, it’s a name. A name, no matter what, I seem to be tethered to. Like a moth to a flame, I flock to a Tom. So as I examine the identity parade of my love life, let me relay three of my Toms.

Ah. Tom number one. The OG Tom if you will. Where does one even start? Well, they’re a friend of a friend, have cracking hair and a great sense of humour. They were a crush that consumed my Sub-honours brain, and I credit my friends for standing by me after I uttered their name about twenty times a day. Alas, they rejected me and made the rejection abundantly clear once they started consistently avoiding me in the street. Nonetheless, Tom number one gets an eight out of ten. Call me!

Akin to number one, Tom number two is another friend of a friend with great hair. They are rather dashing and when I show a picture of them to my friends, I receive unanimous approval. While they are attractive, conversations with them leave me bored s**tless. Rarely do they deviate from their primary interest which, without incriminating them, really should never enter the realm of flirtation. I certainly have more of a chance with number two than number one and yet it’s a pity that they’re a bore. Nevertheless, great sex. 

Number Three. Dear. Lord. Tom number three is another friend of a friend — perhaps I need new friends. After endless nagging, I reluctantly went on a date with Tom on a hot, sunny day, and yet the date was firmly tepid in nature. On this scorcher of a day, Tom thought it a bright idea to have an ice-cream in a cone — salted caramel I believe it was. And if it wasn’t for their utterly bizarre use of an Australian accent throughout our conversation, it was the ice cream periodically dripping on their trousers that killed the date. Dismissing my calls to put it in the bin, Tom clutched onto the cone and the ice cream continued to drip…drip…drip until they looked like a dalmatian. I have not contacted them since. 

Ultimately, yes, I do need to find someone with a different name.

Illustration by Clodagh Earl