Introduction

Poppy Mortimer is hungry for love. Will she find The One, or lose her appetite for men, forever?

Smart, attractive, and fueled by wide-eyed optimism, Poppy Mortimer leaves rainy England to start a new life-and find the perfect man-in exotic Australia. Surely somewhere out there, a Chris Hemsworth impersonator is just waiting to whisk her off her feet and show her the real charms of 'Down Under'.

But as Poppy launches into 28 dates, ranging from the outright hysterical to borderline traumatic, it becomes clear she's going to have to kiss a few frogs-assuming she doesn't croak first. From the seven-foot giant with a disturbing workout practice, to the exclusive party that turns out to be a lot more than just cocktails and canapes, Poppy starts to wonder if she should sue Disney for giving her false hope.

With gusto, humour, and a lot of heart, Poppy digs deep into her past as a child of divorce, and her ongoing journey as a modern woman and devoted romantic. Through laughter, tears, and characters that are truly stranger than fiction, Poppy won't stop until she finds true love-or something even greater.

Fans of Bridget Jones's Diary and Sex and the City (or any person who wants to feel better about their own dating life) will love this book.

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Excerpt

Introduction

Where do I even begin? Why am I even writing this? The truth is no one would believe some of the following dates could ever happen.

Unfortunately for me, they did!

So, here I am, airing my dirty laundry for your entertainment and edification, sharing my most disastrous dates that have spanned two decades and three continents. I use the term ‘date’ loosely, as some of these experiences were so shocking, they never progressed beyond texting.

Blame my childhood. As an eleven-year-old and a child of divorce, I turned to films and romance novels about women falling madly in love with the most beautiful men Hollywood and Hollywood’s plastic surgeons had to offer. You can already see how I was doomed to fail from the start, right?

So, how weird are we talking?

Recently I got a text from a prospective date.

Let’s skip dinner, go back to yours and play Postman, where I’ll put my big package in your tiny slot.

Yep. Apparently, that behaviour is ‘acceptable’ for a forty-year-old man to send to a woman he’s never met . . . And now he never will.

But it got me thinking about all the horrendous ‘romantic’ encounters I’ve put up with over two decades. And now it’s payback time . . .

Before getting into the dating ordeals I want to start with apologies, mainly to my mother.

Mum, I apologise for all references to male genitalia. This is not because I want to talk about male genitalia. In fact, it’s probably the lowest ranking topic on my conversational list. It just seems to come up a lot of the time—no pun intended.

Over the years, your ears have bled and eyes burnt by the explicit photos of men’s private parts. Thank you for handling them so well. That’s another unintended pun.

Thanks for being a great Mum—by the way!

Speaking of parents, I should inform you ahead of time that my dad raised me with the notion that those who curse lack the vocabulary to properly articulate themselves. And since this is my book and my conditioning reigns supreme, I’m going to censor some dialogue, serving up penises with a side of bleeps. Think of this as an opportunity to add your own flair to the book and to mentally add in whatever combination of swear words brings you the most joy.

In addition to the apologies section, I’m including a shame section. While I’m the one making you all envision the horrid scenarios that follow, I am not the one who made them happen. I place that responsibility firmly on the shoulders of all the feral cavemen that have made show-stopping appearances in this book.

And a special shout-out should go to the patriarchy for creating a dynamic where women feel responsible for the atrocious behaviour of the male species.

There may be men reading this who might want to be part of the new world where equality and respect are normal ways of behaving. In that case, I hope this serves as an educational piece on how not to act in romantic situations.

Please, DON’T do any of these things you are about to read. Pretty please. And if you are thinking about it, just stop. Like immediately. And then go to your computer, open your preferred search engine, look up a therapist and start a beautiful journey of self-discovery and growth, with the ultimate goal of not traumatising your fellow humans to the point of them having to write a book about it.

Finally, I’d love any readers (who have probably had disastrous dates of their own) to realise the following:

You are not alone.

Every disastrous date will lead you to know what you don’t want, which in turn leads you to know what you do want. That’s physics. Or something.

Each date has the potential to reflect your conditioning and that insight can lead you to finding your true self and the right partner—should you want one.

If not, you can still lead a happy, fulfilled life as an amazing single person. Or even as an ordinary one.

So, are you prepared to uncover the looming horrors? You may just throw up in disgust or spit your drink out in shock. Therefore, I recommend no eating or drinking whilst reading.

Proceed with caution . . . view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

1. What is the most disastrous date you've been on?
2. Which disastrous date could you relate most to?
3. What lesson will you take away and use in your own life?
4. Which date do you think was the most disastrous and why?
5. Which date made you laugh the most and why?

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