Written by the brilliant London Paper Love Columnist, Zoe Strimpel but echoing the thoughts of girls around the world after a night on the drink

I woke up this morning feeling odd. OK, so I was in a bed I didn’t immediately recognise and my head was pounding, but the reality was fairly harmless. I was in a university campus guest room, which my old chum Tom had arranged for me.

And though the night before had involved inordinate amounts of booze with my uni friends, I even breathed a sigh of relief that it had not ­involved men – or at least not in a major way. ­Despite the hangover came relief that my regrets were physical and not emotional. Or so I thought.

Halfway through brushing my teeth, I thought to check the sent messages on my phone, just to be on the safe side. 8pm: a text to Tom telling him I had arrived. 10:45pm: a badly spelled text to my friend Hannah about some plans today. Midnight: Aargh! A text to Max (ideal man with girlfriend and child in Spain). And 1am: a text to Marc, the man I met in Berlin! What was I doing around midnight? Ah – the girls and I were draining the last of a large bottle of Bison Grass Vodka. This was a classic case of drunken texting, which ­always seems a good idea at the time but horribly erroneous the next day.

I felt sick and had to sit down. Neither Max nor Marc had replied. And I thought I’d weaned myself off this sort of thing. The text to Max said: “Max! Are you in the country? When are we going to see each other then?” The one to Marc said: “Bet you’re doing something naughty right now. Just thought I’d say hi.”

Although the Marc message was more cringe-worthy (obviously horny and possibly desperate), the Max text ­disturbed me more. It wasn’t the wording or tone that mortified me – it was a message I could have sent a mere friend – but the fact that there were deeper feelings to betray.

In the simple act of texting at 1am with an openness I never normally show him, I had ­utterly revealed my feelings. I may have been drunk, but there was an underlying truth there that is still there with me – and Max – in the cold light of today. That is, when the booze flows and the guard drops, he is on my mind, despite the fact all bets have been off for months.

I can try to patch things up by being extra uncommunicative for a while and seeming really relaxed next time I see him – if there is a next time. But so far, no reply from him or Marc. But unlike past bouts of drunken texting, I’m not going to beat myself up about it. Both guys treated me less than well. So while this makes my drunken ­texting all the more painful and regrettable, it makes me resolved to shrug it off.

Hopefully by next weekend I won’t care. But I have already asked my friends to keep an eye on me and my phone.

Having an afternoon drink with a friend last Sunday, we found ourselves sitting beside a trendy twentysomething couple whose conversation we could overhear all too clearly.
Actually, it was just a monologue by the young woman, who spelled out each of the banal uninteresting problems and worries that plagued her life.

All of her mind-numbing anxieties - about work, her friends, what to buy someone for their birthday - were articulated in excruciating detail over the next two hours in a grating, whining voice.

Her companion gazed empathetically into her face from across the table, listening intently as he stroked her hand to comfort her. He was paying her the sort of devoted, patient attention that only a man in desperate want of sex can manage.

Any other guy would surely have found her blathering unbearable. From the tension in his jaw and the way his eyes narrowed as his hand slid ever upwards along her bare arm, it was obvious there was only one thing on his mind.

And he was prepared to listen to two hours of her garbage in the hope that he would get it.

In their idiotic way the couple exemplified a fundamental truth about men and women.

We exist in two different time zones. Men want to be happy right now, today, preferably in the company of a beautiful woman. Tomorrow can wait.

Women, on the other hand, are constantly concerned with the future, and with their prospects financially, emotionally and sexually.

While this girl prattled on about her vague hopes and worries for the future, her boyfriend was anchored by his carnal desires into the immediate here and now.

They exemplified what I've come to realise over the years: that men and women have almost nothing in common, other than the desire for sex and, if they have any children, a shared concern for their wellbeing. Besides that, we have very little interest in each other.

Some people claim to be lovingly entwined with their partners. They're deluded or lying. I'm in my mid-30s and have met no such couple.

I've known couples of all races and ages, some of them in arranged marriages - all of them simmering with tension and dissonance.

I've never met a couple I've envied. I don't feel sad admitting this. I feel liberated. I no longer cling to the myth that relationships create happiness, and I don't feel guilty or alone when feeling dissatisfied in my marriage.

Everyone else feels this, whether they admit it or not.

Men and women speak two different tongues. We can barely even get to know each other, let alone make each other happy.

Women are pathological worriers, especially the intelligent and successful ones.

I remember how, at university, the brightest girls were the most meticulous notetakers during lectures, while the boys slouched through them half-asleep.

Women can't trust their abilities and go with the flow. Even the most capable ones are riddled with doubts and desperate for security.

And that means security for the future: are they going to meet a nice man they can take home to meet their mother? Are they going to have a nice house with a conservatory at the back?

Women think and think about their lives, they plan and scheme and imagine how things might go with Mike or Sam or Joe. Who would be the best husband, the best father, the best lover? Which would have the best pension plan?

Meanwhile Mike and Sam and Joe are probably just thinking about whether the woman in question will sleep with them tonight, and who is going to win the Champions League this summer.

I remember when I proposed to my wife. We were lying in our hotel bed, on holiday in Thailand. We'd been living together for six months and my wife was now pestering me to find out where our relationship was 'going'.

I had no idea where we were 'going', and it was late and I was tired. I told her that if we were still together in a year's time I'd marry her. Then I went to sleep. Romantic, huh?

My answer was a re