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…

I really should know better.

I should know better than to try to look glamorous, because every time I try, something goes wrong. Horribly, horribly wrong.

I think it’s something I’ve inherited from my mother.

Now, my dear mum is usually rather smartly turned out. This, in its turn, is a trait that we’ve both inherited from my gran: despite the fact that she’s pushing 90, Gran’s innate sense of style would never permit her to leave the house with a mismatched necklace or the ‘wrong’ kind of shoes. She is a truly elegant woman.

Although my mum and I don’t quite have my grandma’s pizazz, we can both brush up quite nicely if the occasion requires. But we share more than merely an eye for a neat lapel or a nicely cut dress: we also have a congenital Aura of Disaster.

This Aura of Disaster usually makes itself felt just when the utmost elegance and aplomb is required. It’s responsible for that trip at the top of the staircase as you try to make a graceful entrance, or the involuntary twitch that causes you to hurl a full glass of red wine down your skirt as you try to impress some handsome man you’ve had your eye on for ages.

I hold the Aura of Disaster solely responsible for the time that I caught my heel in the hem of my oh-so-pretty handkerchief dress at a rather elegant bar in Sicily.

Not wanting to rip the dress further, I hopped crashingly down a couple of steps – watched by pretty much everyone present – only coming to a halt when I battered into the firm and unmoving back of a particularly suave young gentleman who was holding not one, but two cocktails in his unfaltering hands.

Fortunately, the tidal wave of luridly-coloured alcohol was thrust forwards, thus leaving his crisply-ironed shirt splatter free, but the look he gave me was sufficient to freeze the blood in my veins, and leave me in no doubt that my social standing in that bar was slightly lower than that of a flattened earthworm stuck gummily to the bottom of his shoe.

I shan’t bore you with other tales of tragedy (although lord knows there’s no shortage of tales to tell); let’s just say that where there’s elegance, the Aura of Disaster is never far away.

And so it is that on this bright and sunny spring morning, I make the fatal mistake of slinging on a smart frock, a jaunty pair of heels and a snazzy red trenchcoat for work. I must admit that I’m feeling quite polished, for once, and the gentleman who makes a theatre of stepping back to open the coffee shop door for me seems to agree, accompanying the gesture as he does with a low, appreciative whistle.

This sort of thing always throws me, so I fluster a bit and say thank you to the floor as I push past him and get in line for my coffee.

“Hey! Ciao, bella!” says the sexy barista. “Where are you going, dressed so smartly?”

It’s official. I’m looking good.

I get my coffee, and make my way out as the door opener says goodbye with a broad wink. Making my way to the park, I sit and drink my coffee, soaking up the sun and enjoying the smell of spring. It’s so warm, I even take off my coat.

After a while, I decide that it’s time I got back to work, so I start to wander back. A bus driver even stops to let me across the road with a smile. I’m full of the joys of spring, and I smile graciously back at him.

Just as I’m getting close to my destination, I hear a voice behind me.

“Excuse me!”

I turn, and see a lady pushing a pram offering me a sympathetic smile.

“I don’t know if you’re aware,” she begins, “but your bag has pushed your dress up at the back and…”

I put an exploratory hand to where my skirt should be … and meet only leg. And I continue to feel only leg right the way up to, and slightly beyond, the knicker-line.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, I’ve been flashing my behind to the world, and heaven knows for how long. No wonder the bus driver was smiling.

Yanking my skirt down, and thanking the lady, I think that I should feel mortified. But, in fact, all I can do is laugh. And wonder how I failed to feel the breeze, fluttering round my undercarriage.

So much for looking elegant, I think. The Aura of Disaster strikes again.

When you think about it, it’s no wonder I’m still bloody single…

So, the clocks have changed, spring has sprung and here I am: still as single as can be.

If I’m to avoid an old age surrounded by cats, I’ve decided that I need a strategy. It’s all very well hoping that I meet some delicious young gentleman to sweep me off my feet, but thirty-five years’ worth of experience tells me it’s not going to happen spontaneously.

More recent experience tells me that trying to force Cupid’s hand by parading myself on dating sites isn’t the way forward either. And although I dearly love my gang of mates, I fear that Cupid is unlikely to strike in their presence: since I’m one of the oldest in the group, there aren’t (m)any candidates for the position of potential beau.

So my all-new battle plan hinges on tipping the odds in my favour and hanging out with the right demographic: if I make more grown-up friends, I’ll meet more grown-up men and therefore increase my chances of finding a grown-up man who wants to date me. Simple, non?

Of course, there is – as always – a teensy flaw in the plan: hanging out with grown-ups means that I have to grow up. And this thought fills me with dread.

The fact is that growing up – I mean, really growing up – doesn’t appeal to me much as a concept. It may be that from my disadvantaged viewpoint I’ve got the wrong end of the stick, but to me growing up means mortgages and obligation, being where you don’t necessarily want to be, and not having the option of running away if you need to.

I suppose it also means stability, security and certainty… but none of these sounds particularly sexy or appealing to my ears.

Growing up also seems to signify the end of youthful ideals, the death of dreams, and the sudden desire to own any number of pointless electronic goods that fill the hole where excitement and fun used to be.

In terms of material acquisitions, I’m lagging sadly behind my classmates – I’ve got a pushbike, a stereo and a battered old car, but I fall short on the house, the SUV and the 42” surround-sound TV.

To be honest though, I really don’t give two hoots about that kind of thing.

In fact, I quite like the fact that if I really wanted, I could drop everything and move to Timbuktu tomorrow, unencumbered by any of my possessions. Naturally, I’m far too sensible to do that (more’s the pity), but I like the feeling that there’s nothing to stop me.

I once had a friend who took it into his head to own no more than he could carry. Of course, he took it to the extreme – to the point where he had to wear a blanket when his trousers were on their annual wash – but something inside me applauds the sentiment.

I passed by the Apple store the other day. It was the first sunny day of the year, and the excitement of picnics, barbeques and lazy afternoons spent idling with friends was fizzing in my veins.

In the shopping centre, there was a long, long queue of people waiting and waiting for their turn to buy the latest hi-tech, go-faster gadget on the first day of its release. I wanted to shake them by the shoulders and force them out into the sun, force them to sniff the spring air, force them to dream a little bit.

Now, I know as well as anyone that there’s different strokes for different folks, but really, when you’re old and toothless are you really going to look back with fondness on the day you queued at the Apple store? Of course everyone’s different, but my memories are made of good times: good food, good weather and – especially – good company.

Anyway, in light of all this, I can see that my battle plan doesn’t go far enough.

Meeting grown-ups is all well and good, but what I’m actually looking for is slightly childish grown-ups with a highly developed sense of fun and an underdeveloped love of material goods. It’s a small and rarefied subset of society … which might explain why I’m still bloody single.

So, I appeal to you now, good people: get your thinking caps on! Do you know any individuals who fit this rather exacting description? If the answer’s no, I definitely need a Plan B.

This time next month, I’ll have been single for two years. And, far from being the tragic period of penance you might imagine, it’s actually been quite fun.

Obviously, the first month or two was a period of mourning, where I was most likely to be found wallowing in a pool of tissues and tears. And that wasn’t remotely fun.

But even though it was hellish at the time, in retrospect even that particularly huge cloud had a spangly silver lining: it made me realise who my friends were.

Yep, it’s a cliché, but the girlfriends who listened to my wailing and teeth-gnashing not only earned my eternal gratitude, they also went up a notch in my estimation. It takes dedication to keep turning up to coffee dates when you know you’re going home with a soggy shoulder and snot on your lapel.

Equally meritorious were the friends who kept inviting me to parties and gatherings, despite my inability to commit to anything until ten minutes before kick-off. They also discreetly ignored my habit of scurrying off to the loo, returning only to make my excuses and leave, red-eyed and sniffling.

I’m especially remorseful that I missed the hen night of one of my oldest and dearest friends. But honestly, who wants a quivering pile of emotional jelly raining on your parade when you’re involved in a day of pampering and female bonding?

(I made it to the wedding, and she was radiant. And the only tears I shed were of the traditional, wedding-related sort.)

I’m also grateful to the guy friends who could quite easily have taken sides, but who made a special effort to keep in touch and maintain an impartial demeanour. The chap who dragged himself from his bed at 8am on a Sunday morning to accompany me to the wrong side of London to collect freebie furniture – after a particularly hard night on the town – should have been given a medal.

Inevitably, a few friends fell by the wayside, but such is life. It hurt at the time, but do I miss them now? Not really. Losing your partner and half your friends is a great incentive to get out there and meet a whole lot more.

The friends I’ve made in the last couple of years are fun, vibrant and active. Sure, we’re a quirky bunch, but with this ragtag band of misfits and miscreants I’ve done wine tastings, walking weekends and trips abroad, scoffed picnics and pancakes and … umm … disgraced myself at vodka parties.

And it’s been FUN.

In fact, one the best ‘gifts’ of that crappy, crappy time was the realisation that I could never feel so bad again. As a result, I’m continually struck by how happy I am now.

Life is good, and if I find a man to share the good life with me, then so much the better. But in the meantime, I’m more than happy all by myself.

As my Sicilian mammina* would say, megghiu sula ca malaccumpagnata: better alone than in bad company. And amen to that.

*affectionate: little mother

Another day, another cappuccino.

Having got over my mortification at the hand of the sexy barista, I’m installed in the coffee shop, slowly supping my coffee and making notes on the particularly intelligent-looking book that I’m battling through.

It’s in French, which isn’t really my forte, so it’s taking a large part of my attention. Which is why I jump about a metre in the air when the very same sexy barista plonks himself down beside me.

“Are you nervous?” he says, with a smirk.

Recomposing myself, I make some slightly tetchy comment about him having work to do, but it’s two o’clock; he’s finished for the day, so he sits and eats his lunch with me. The conversation is slightly terse, and I’m unsure whether this is due to shyness (both his and mine) or the sandwich he’s woofing down at high speed.

What’s weird is that it’s not exactly a flirtatious exchange. In fact, it feels more like a job interview. Once we’ve got through our respective employment choices, where we live and with whom, he looks at me levelly and says, “Can you cook?”

Jeez, I think. Italians! Always fretting about their stomachs.

Having spent a few years in Italy, I know that how I answer this question is more important than almost anything else. I could be a raving psycho with any number of eccentricities and anti-social habits, provided I know to cook my pasta al dente and have a more than a passing acquaintance with the salt cellar.

To most Italians, we hapless Brits are the authors of many a culinary faux pas, from daring to consume a cappuccino after noon, to our love of deep pan pizza (insert your own sneer now). But no sin could be as great as our unholy treatment of pasta.

And I use the word ‘unholy’ advisedly since, for most Italians, the preparation of pasta is akin to a religious rite. The fact that we toss our pasta in meagre quantities of water – sometimes without salt – and then boil it half to death is the source of much tongue-clicking, eye-rolling and sarcastic commentary.

I, however, have been thoroughly schooled in pasta preparation: I know that you need enough boiling water to drown in, a generous hand with the salt and an eagle eye on the clock. I even know which kind of sauce goes with which kind of pasta. Ha! Take that, sexy barista and your ill-founded assumptions!

Having thus proved myself worthy, he suggests that we might eat together one evening.

“I’ll cook,” he says.

A worthy dining companion I may be, but not yet trusted enough to be let loose at the stove.

Of course, I may be misjudging him completely; perhaps he’s just being kind, and I’m just a suspicious old so-and-so. Either way, I’ll be happy to stand meekly by while he flaunts his pasta prowess.

But here’s the catch: I’m a busy sort of person whose week books up pretty quickly, so I prefer to pick a day and put it in my diary. Whereas he’s a spontaneous sort who doesn’t want to be, “one of those people in your diary” – ??!!

Whatever, I think.

I’m not sure whether this tentative agreement is worth celebrating or not. After all, I might have myself half a date, but I won’t be surprised if it takes a lifetime to happen…

Today I have my very first date with Someone From The Internet.

I would be nervous if I had any real expectations of this encounter, but I honestly don’t. Having long since given up trying to judge from people’s profiles whether we’re likely to be compatible or not, I decided just to go out with the first person to ask. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

So I’m feeling quite cool about it all when the moment arrives. But, as a precaution, our first encounter is at lunchtime. And since I’m the lady and I get to choose, I’ve picked the coffee shop that I visit every morning before work. I’ve even primed the sexy barista to keep an eye on things for me.

In the event, I needn’t have worried. My Someone From The Internet is a perfectly nice chap. Perfectly unattractive to me, too, unfortunately, but definitely not in the ‘axe wielding maniac’ category.

As we linger over an espresso (yes, as long as all that), it becomes apparent that we have approximately nothing in common: although he likes walking weekends, he hates gyms, which is where I spend 50% of my free time. He has a teenaged son, which I don’t mind per se, but I feel far too young to be hanging out with the parents of teenagers. And he loves two of the very few kinds of music that I find unbearable: jazz and 70s rock.

During the conversation, it becomes apparent that our points of view also differ in all sorts of little, everyday things. Worse still, there’s absolutely no hint of anything spark-like. Not even a tiny bit.
Still, we gamely string it out for 40 minutes, before making our excuses and getting up to go. Pleading a visit to the little girls’ room, I wave him off and turn round to find the sexy barista standing in front of me.

“So?” he says.

I make the kind of face that doesn’t quite look as if I’ve sucked a lemon, but isn’t exactly indicative of wild enthusiasm either.

“So when do I get my turn?” he asks.

“When you ask for it,” I say.

This is pretty pert, coming from me. Despite being bubbly and gregarious in all sorts of situations, lately, my default reaction when confronted by attractive men – which in all honesty, isn’t very often – tends towards ‘rabbit in headlights’.

In fact, even this smidgen of boldness brings me out in a fluster, and I’m not exactly sure how it happens, but I end up giving him my phone number.

By the time I leave, I’m so befuddled that I can’t remember if I’m supposed to be popping in tomorrow morning or if I nixed that by burbling about a prior arrangement, but in any case, I’m feeling pretty proud of myself: not only did I break my dating site duck, I also gave my number to a hot man!

Immediately, my brain starts thinking of all sorts of reasons why this might be a bad idea, so to shut it up, I do the mental equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ears and bawling, “Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la -la-laaaah!”

Sure, we might be completely incompatible once the conversation extends beyond, “Small cappuccino, please,” but equally, we might not. And besides, I’m just hugely excited that a real, live, hot man TOOK MY PHONE NUMBER!

Unless, of course, he decides not to call me. That would turn my morning espresso into a coffee-coated walk of shame. Ohmigod, can you imagine if he just doesn’t call me?

Now, wait a minute. Hot man or no hot man, I’m not turning myself into a nervous wreck. Excuse me just a moment…

*Ploink*

Join in if you know the words…

“Tra-la-lah! Tra-la-la-la-laaaah! Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaah!”