As clear as mud

Here's a moral story for you, O Best Beloved, and a reminder of the fact that men and women are just not meant to understand each other.

A couple of months ago the Boy du Jour asked me to put this coming weekend in my diary so that we could go and see some friends of his up in Winchester. No worries, said I, and accordingly scrawled "booked" across the days in question.

Then, last night, I received a text from the Boy informing me that in fact this "weekend trip" referred only to Saturday. Fair enough, I said, shall we do something on Friday night? No, apparently not; he's out with friends for someone else's birthday celebration. Um, but of course I could come along to that if I want?

Nein, danke, I said (being firmly of the opinion that an invitation at two days' notice where everyone else was booked a month before is not a real invitation at all). You have fun with your friends, I'll go hang out with my posse and we can meet on Sat.

Except of course only one of my trusted posse is available on a Friday night at such short notice - and that's Matt, my hairdresser. So it's (an admittedly much needed) restyle and a quiet night in for me.

Honestly, though, talk about a failure of communication. I blame the inexplicable mental manoeuverings of the male of the species, which complex concept I can sum up rather more easily in one simple and exhasperated word: men!