So Uni Boy, the keen bean, turns up just 30 minutes after my arrival. And he graces me with his presence again the next day. And the next.

It’s good to spend some time in his company, lolling around doing nothing much and indulging in lots of kisses and cuddles and you-can-imagine-what-else.

But of course, this state of idle bliss can’t last.

On day three, we’re sitting having lunch in the sunshine, when he turns to me and says, “I don’t think we should do this anymore. Romantically, I mean…”

He smiles apologetically.

To be honest, I can’t say I’m surprised. It seems pretty much par for the course. I imagine that, if I let him, he’ll keep changing his mind eternally, until something better comes up for either or both of us.

So I smile beatifically at him, feeling the sun making freckles on my face, and say, “OK.”

Maybe he’s surprised that I acquiesce so readily. Maybe not. But the sun of Istanbul has boosted my spirits and although my buoyant mood might be slightly dented, it’s not completely deflated.

Besides, I’m on a high from our three-day cuddle-a-thon … but as much as I’m a sucker for hugs and affection, I’m demanding enough to want them on tap, not just when the other party feels ready to dish them out. All in all, I have to conclude that it’s been fun and it’s been convenient but maybe it really is time to quit.

So we lapse back into a comfortable silence and keep sipping our wine until the sun goes down.

The next day, at a lazy afternoon BBQ, I’m chatting to a friend about my dismal success rate with the opposite sex.

“Aha!” says friend triumphantly. “I have the answer! I read it in a magazine: if you go on 100 dates, you’re guaranteed to find a partner.”

I consider this for a moment, while my friend looks at me expectantly.

“Fine,” I say, although I’m far from convinced. “But where do I find 100 men to date?”

Here, friend looks a bit sheepish.

“Well,” he says. “That’s the big question!”

Indeed it is.

If I could meet and date 100 single men, the scales would surely tip in my favour. The laws of probability must dictate that one out of 100 is decent, funny, kind and interested in me. But the magical 100 is a long way off: I could probably count all my dates from the last two years without running out of fingers. At this rate I’ll be revving up my zimmer for a hot date at the bingo before I’m even halfway to 100.

Plus, the fact that the guy is right for me is no guarantee that I’ll be right for him. As has proved to be the case on many an occasion.

In rose-tinted moments, Uni Boy questions my tragically single status.

“You must be too picky,” he says, “You could have anyone you want.”

While I’m obviously flattered, it’s been a very long time since I could have whomever I wanted. If, indeed, I ever could. No, lately I seem to have had more than my fair share of unrequited crushes, and a series of men who are semi-suitable at best.

Like Uni Boy himself, for example.

I’m halfway home when my phone pings to announce the arrival of a text message. Guess who?

“Are you asleep? Be nice to meet up…”

I stifle an ironic snort. This boy changes his mind more often than I change my undies. But honestly, if it’s a choice between sleeping cosily in someone’s arms and sleeping alone, which would you pick?

So with grim inevitability, I whizz a text back.

“Be home in 5 minutes. See you there.”

I know I deserve a slap on the wrist. And I suspect I’m going to get one, too. I hope my mother doesn’t hear about this, cos if she does, I just know she’s going to kill me…