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If I were actually dating it might fit better – the thing, is I’ve had a bad run and it’s put me off. The Date that Wasn’t Here I am, minding my own business and eating my lunch at a window seat in my favourite sandwich bar. He grabs my hand, says it again and then whisks back out of the door, trailing a miasma of Davidoff and cigarettes.I know the saying “you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince”, but in my recent experience the frogs are making up the significant majority. It’s a lovely day and I’m feeling quite kindly disposed towards my fellow man, even in the City. No, of course I didn’t go to a place called the Silver Cock with an anonymous coked-up banker. The Posh Date A friend introduced me to a man who in theory seemed perfect and who invited me to Glyndebourne.Suddenly a shadow looms out of the sun, seizes me by the shoulders and plants a slippery wet kiss on my face. It turned out to be a morning dress rehearsal of Britten’s The Turn of the Screw (heavy going before lunch), which meant driving down the night before and staying with some friends of his nearby.It occurred to me as I got into his car and he didn’t offer to carry my bag (I’m old-fashioned that way) that this was probably unwise, but hey, it was Glyndebourne! My room for the night had polyester sheets (obviously used) and the filthiest bathroom I’d ever seen.I find men my own age are in their happy hunting ground when pursuing prospects a good 15 to 20 years younger than they are – or more pertinently, than I am.

This, by extension, explains why I am catnip to octogenarians.

I have now accepted this as the inevitable consequence of my continued middle-aged singledom. Things I find sexily attractive – good grooming, wit, voice, intelligence – carry no upper age limit.

A date with an elderly actor materialised, and I skipped along to the West End with high expectations of an evening filled with interesting theatrical discourse … After that his (beautifully enunciated) conversation came with a side order of .

On the way down, his “housekeeper” (he said) phoned and kept phoning, and then came the barley sugars. I slept on top of the bed, in my clothes, with a chair wedged under the door handle.

This man had quite the worst dentistry I’d ever seen – probably no dentistry, in fact. Every 30 minutes or so he chucked another boiled sweet in his mouth and rattled it round what remained of his teeth. The next day was freezing and overcast, and when the sun did come out it lit up the lovely white badgery bristles on my date’s nose. When a charming Italian lawyer invited me to dinner I thought I’d be on safe ground, having been in a relationship with one a few years previously.

On the way home the barley sugars rattled again and his “housekeeper” phoned every 20 minutes. I do rather enjoy relaxed Italian formality and good manners – it’s all very proper.