Let’s face it, I’ve been single for so long, that I have no idea of my currency in the dating world: am I the sort of girl that a man would be proud to snag? (Hmmm. Well, they’re not exactly forming an orderly queue…)

Or am I just a short step away from the category tragically known as ‘Minger’? (Surely not…? But then again, they’re not exactly forming an orderly queue…)

Of course, I’m not languishing at home alone: my social life is pretty hectic, but – for the right man – I’d be willing to sacrifice some of my commitments. (Provided he understood that Thursday nights and Sunday mornings are non-negotiable, belonging incontestably, as they do, to the realm of Body Combat.)

But first, of course, I need to find the Right Man. And here’s where it all goes wrong: I just don’t seem to meet any appropriate men. And lord knows I’ve been looking.

But where does one go to meet ‘appropriate men’? If you’ve exhausted your friends and their friends, that means you need to make new acquaintances; but once you’ve been to countless clubs, courses, pubs and bars… what’s left?

Girly nights out tend to be fruitless hunting grounds. And to be honest, I find dressing for a night out to be a form of torture: once you hit 35, the fine line that separates youthful and attractive from ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ becomes more and more difficult to negotiate. Clothes that once said, “funky and alternative” come dangerously close to screaming, “aging rock chick” – a look that no-one in their right mind would want to adopt.

So petrified am I of falling victim to these fashion faux pas that more often than not I opt for jeans and a t-shirt: the perfect recipe for slinking around unnoticed, blending with the wallpaper.

Sartorial awkwardness aside, though, on a good day I think I’d manage a solid seven out of ten. And if anyone’s inclined to disagree, I’d be grateful if you’d mention it only if you’re planning on moving the figure upwards. Because if I lose faith in my seven out of ten, I’ll really come unstuck.

While I’m a seven, I can console myself that all those men who aren’t flocking to my door just don’t know what they’re missing. If I start thinking I’m a minger, it’s all over. I might as well rent the granny flat and start visiting the cat sanctuary right now.

So what is it that’s holding all the fellas back? Am I just hanging out in the wrong places? (Like, my life, for example?) Do I look unfriendly? Inclined to rebuff all unsolicited advances? What??? What is it that all my loved-up friends have that I’m sadly lacking?

Friends posit the theory that I’m too confident; that I give the impression of being too happy in my singledom. But, really, short of wearing a t-shirt reading, “Single and searching”, what can I do about that? Surely walking round with a long face and widow’s weeds isn’t the way to snare the man of your dreams?

Anyhow, if I keep this up for a few more years, the only thing I’m going to be lacking is a zimmer frame and a set of support stockings.

Gentle reader, YOU can stop this happening. Parcel up your unwanted menfolk and send them my way.

There’s got to be one of them who’ll find a minger with a zimmer an irresistible proposition…