I know. It was my own fault. I have only myself to blame. But the evening started out so innocently. In fact, it was practically cultural…

Billed as, “From the Baltics to the Danube: the finest traditional drinks from more than 10 countries, with authentic food, dance and more!”, the vodka party seemed the perfect way to pass a few tranquil hours in the company of friends. And since I’d declared myself too snuffly even to go to the gym, of course I’d take it easy and be tucked up in bed by 11 o’clock.

(There’s no point in raising your eyebrows. I really did think that. I did.)

Starting with a civilised recce of the stalls, I tried to work out the wisest way to use my tokens: Hungarian pálinka, Russian honey pepper vodka or Finnish Salmiakki?

In retrospect, the tone of the evening was set by my first choice: the Polish ‘mad dog’ – a fine blend of vodka, tabasco and raspberry syrup. Encouraged by the tipsy bartender, my girlfriend and I raised our glasses and downed the contents in the traditional way. De-licious!

With just one sniff of the barmaid’s apron, the atmosphere had become distinctly merry. Giggling, we looked around for next choice: bargain basement Romanian vodka? Lithuanian brandy?

Another shot or two later, and things were becoming rather raucous.

Since none of us is particularly well-known for their ability to hoover hard liquor, I suppose it was inevitable: not halfway into the evening, our normally mild-mannered gang had erupted into cackling laughter and extensive back-slapping. An hour later and we were weaving our way to the local nightclub, ready to groove with the best of them.

And that’s where I met unsuitable man #4.

Unhindered by my slightly impaired co-ordination, I was cutting a dash on the dancefloor when a vision of loveliness came smiling towards me. I watched his lips move as he spoke to me, but with the music pounding in my ears, he might as well have been speaking in tongues.

So I was still gazing at him with vague incomprehension when he leaned forwards and kissed me. Surprised, but undeterred, I decided to go with the flow.

After a few minutes, he disappeared and I carried on dancing.

Now, I’m not the sort of girl who would ordinarily snog a man she’s just met – my mother taught me better than that – but in the benevolent haze so generously bestowed by the Baltic’s finest, it would have seemed churlish to refuse.

When he came back again, I was polite enough to ask his name. But I never got to find out any more than that about Jez, because he started kissing me again.

The third time he came back, something told me to ask him his age.

Beaming at me with the face of an angel, he said proudly, “I’m twenty.” I had to recover my eyebrows from the back of my head. He looked young, but not that young.

“Jez,” I said. “I’m thirty-five!”

The delightful Jez shrugged his shoulders. And kissed me again.

I ask you, what’s a girl supposed to do?

When he returned for the last time, phone in hand, to ask for my number, I hesitated. Then I gave him my number, with the last two digits reversed.

Dear Jez, it was fun – and I can’t deny it was an ego-boost too. But let’s not do it again.

Tonight I’m out with the delectable fellow that shall be referred to as The Young Swede. He’s everything you could want in a man: intelligent, good looking and sensitive, with a smart-arse sense of humour. Kissing him is as celestial as being surrounded by a host of cherubim and seraphim.

We share so many likes and dislikes that you couldn’t make it up: we snark sarcastically at the same things, but we also share a love of traditions and travelling, home-made food and foreign languages, cycling, hiking and an unquenchable desire to challenge the status quo. So, gentle reader, you might be asking yourself how this bundle of delectable manhood qualifies as Unsuitable Man #3.

Well, it’s an irremediable flaw that makes a mockery of all his fine qualities and cocks a snook at Cupid’s misguided intentions: the Young Swede is ten years my junior.

Now, this may not be wildly important in the Grand Scheme of Things, and to be honest I quite like the idea of being labelled a ‘cougar’, but if we’re thinking in terms of childbearing (and I suspect that one of us is thinking about it rather more than the other), it’s a dead duck.

And herein the rub. Do you sacrifice a whole heap of fun, just because the template isn’t right, or do you keep on having a ball, only to wake up one day to find that your ovaries have withered and your mother’s sobbing into her hanky because she’s never going to be a grandma?

As it turns out, in this particular case, the decision is made for me: the Young Swede has decided that I’m past my sell-by date and has rather unceremoniously – but of course, quite charmingly – dumped me. Of course, he’s far too fabulous for us not to remain friends, but guess what? I’m still bloody single.

Well, the new year has barely started, but my Unsuitable Man count is already off to a healthy start…

Travelling alone always seems to bring the young, single men out of the woodwork, and today’s blog post comes to you from the east coast of Australia, where I’m currently sunning myself in the way that only self-employed (and self-indulgent) people can.

Travelling alone means that you tend to strike up conversations with all sorts of people that you wouldn’t normally encounter, such as the rather buff Dan, from the good old US of A. He’s been travelling around Australia, I learn, but now he’s stopped on the Gold Coast, taking the chance to earn a few dollars before he gets back on the trail.

He’s whaffing down Jack Daniels and coke from his very own bottle that’s perched on the table. I’m in awe of the amount that he can drink, and he’s in awe of my ability to drink the Jack neat. It’s a match made in heaven.  If only he were not 21.

Now, I admit that I look at 21-year-old travellers with a mix of reverence and benign affection: I’m hugely impressed at their ability to haul themselves round the world at such a tender age, whilst keeping themselves in one piece. But I never once look at 21-year-old travellers as potential snogees, because it would be bordering on child abuse. Shame no one’s told Dan.

As the JD goes down, he gets freer with his affections. He is, as I said, pretty buff, but he’s TWENTY-ONE. Loathe as I am to reveal my age, I see it as the only proper course of action.

“Dan,” I say. “I’m not going to come clubbing. I’m 35.”

“No way!” he explodes, in mock-indignation, “No way! You only look, like, 25!”

I hate to point out that this is probably down to the JD that he’s been inhaling, but anyway, the cruel truth doesn’t seem to have dinted his ardour. He’s insistent that my evening can only be enhanced by grooving and gurning with him and his mates in the local sweatbox.

However tempting the offer may be, I’ve got a bus to catch at 6am, so I stand firm and am rewarded by several long and overly-sentimental hugs, while his bored mates look on.

Twenty-one. Bloody hell. I’m not sure whether to be flattered or appalled…