Do you know how long it’s been since I went on a date?

Hmmm. No, me neither. Not exactly. I ran out of fingers before I could finish counting. Unless you count the pair of coffee dates that the dating site turned up (and I don’t), it’s been … well, absolutely YONKS.

Not that a hot date is necessarily a precursor to a successful relationship. But it’s a start. And if you don’t start, you certainly don’t get anywhere. But how to start when you don’t meet any suitable candidates?

Not that I’ve resigned myself to spending my twilight years surrounded by cats just yet. But I definitely need a hand with identifying and approaching eligible bachelors because otherwise the Cat Rescue will be awarding me Patron Saint status far sooner than I’d like.

… and speaking of bachelors, may I rant for just a moment?

I know I’m not the first to mention it, but ‘bachelor’ sounds so funky, doesn’t it? A ‘bachelor’ is definitely single by choice: he’s elected to prowl the savannah a while longer, enjoying the highlife with his crrrr-azy bachelor chums, who high-five and back-slap each other on wild nights out like something from a Bacardí advert.

‘Spinster’, on the other hand, conjures up something altogether more medieval: it brings to mind a be-hooded crone, sitting vainly at her spinning machine, trying to turn flax into gold, just one step away from being arrested for witchcraft and burned on a bonfire amid cries of, “Heresy!”

I know some ladies prefer the term ‘bachelorette’, but that makes me think of the kind of caravan that was considered the height of swinging style back in 1964.

Anyway, returning to the subject of my manhunt … I’m seriously considering getting a t-shirt printed with some eye-catching message, specifically to attract passing menfolk.

‘Open to offers’ might give the wrong impression. But ‘Single and searching’ might do. Or, more directly: ‘Ask me out!’ Alternatively, I could go for a more oblique approach like, ‘Hates cats’ or ‘Professional go-go dancer’.

“Forget the t-shirt, you just need to start SPEAKING to some men!” declares my wise old girlfriend, as we sit airing our woes over a coffee.

Easier said than done, say I. I know it’s a perfectly reasonable approach, but this is the UK. If you start talking to strangers, they immediately wonder what you want from them, and whether they should call the police now or later.

While I’m pondering this, she goes off to get the coffees in … and returns with a mischievous look on her face that I know spells trouble.

“I decided,” she says, “to take matters into my own hands.”

I look at her questioningly, with not a little trepidation.

“I asked the sexy barista when he was going to ask you out.”

Oh my god. I can never hold my head up in this bar again!

“You did wha…?? Oh, god! Oh … GOD! Why??! And anyway … what did he say?”

“Not a lot,” she giggles. “He blushed, said he was shy, then screwed up the order.”

She indicates the two lattes she’s holding. Definitely not the double espresso I ordered.

I don’t know whether to be pleased that he was bothered enough to blush or mortified that the thought of a date with me reduced him to such a bumbling mess.

Either way, I resolve to stay off the coffee for a while. And look into getting that t-shirt printed. Slogan suggestions on a postcard, please…