Car Crash Dating.

As of this moment I'm officially single and not even bothering anymore to try and change that. Friday night has broken me. This might be the worse one yet. I am a wreck, a broken woman, a date hater and I am never, ever, ever going to one of those parties again. You want to hear all the details? Of course you do. Brace Yourselves. If I had to go through it, then so do you.

So. First I'll confess. I failed to acquire a push up bra. I did do all the hair washing, the primping, the make up, the scent. I was a goddess, prepared to do battle. I was even on time, well I was, until my mother insisted that I needed to come by and change a spotlight bulb for her, at that point I was fashionably late.

The deal was you turned up at the pub at 7.30. All of you would gather in the bar and introduce yourselves before being sat down to dinner at eight. I turned up at 7.45 having failed to bring directions and the pub being in the middle of nowhere in a sprawling village with no lights or sense of anyone actually living there. It took a while to find the place. Heart beating slightly fast at the prospect of real single people being inside I pushed open the door.

Stepping into the warmth of the bar I was greeted by the 'hostess'. Clipboard in hand she ticked me off (the list, not verbally) and reminded me that I needed to buy my own drinks apart from the wine at dinner. Darn. Forgot to bring cash.

I headed to the bar and decided to really go fo it and order water (I know - dashing isn't it?). There are two men at the bar talking to each other. They pay me no attention so I assume they are locals, not willing victims for the slaughter to follow. I head for the 'lounge bar' where I can hear some subdued conversation. I wondered if I had the wrong room. Where were the thirtysomethings? The room had a mixed bag of terrified and or / bored looking men, over made up women and some more relaxed looking 'retirement age' bachelors. Giving myself a stern warning not to judge, I went in.

Nobody spoke to me. I introduced myself (bold hussy behaviour). They stood around in small groups, not really talking to each other at all and clutching their drinks. Some of the men were busy bonding but in classic British male behaviour they were pretending the girls weren't there at all. This was not good. Despite the average age being around the late forties none of them seeemed to have acquired the art of conversation. This might be why they were all single? I chickened out and headed back for the bar. I was going to need more water to get through this.

The two men were still there chatting. They turned out to be friends who had come together to the date night hell but they didn't seem that bothered by actually getting involved in it. We spent a quarter of an hour or so chatting. Well. I asked them questions and they regaled me with stories, tales of derring do and made each other laugh a lot. They were neighbouring farmers. One of them has fifteen dogs, the other looked as if he had had too much botox (very strange over stretched skin on his face) which is an odd look for a hill farmer. They never even asked me my name during all this. Perhaps I should have worn that push up bra?

Noticing silence from the lounge next door we suddenly realised that possibly everyone had gone through to dinner without us and leapt to our feet, galvanised by a British anxiety of being late / rude. Sure enough, like cattle herded into the abbatoir, they were all in the dining room. There were several tables, all with seating arrangements. The boys were to move with each course so that everyone would get to meet everyone else. What a hideous prospect.

Seeing my place name near the door, I sat down at a table laid for eight, at which there were only six place names. Apparently, there were people who looked through the window at the company and ran away rather than coming in. Why didn't I do that?

To my left was a round faced, ruddy cheeked boy / man who was bringing the average age down by about twenty years. To my right an older man. Opposite were two more girls and another man. I sat down and introduced myself to Boy/Man. I soon found out that he was only there because his girl friend (not girlfriend) wanted to come and didn't want to come on her own. He was a farm manager and when I asked what he liked about the job, he answered (with a little too much enthusiasm) 'I like tractors'. Right. My tractor conversation is limited. I persevered. It turned out he also liked combine harvesters, and ploughs, and basically all machinery. He was a boy with a dream job where he played all day with large machinery. He didn't need or want a girlfriend. He wanted the new Massey Ferguson.

Throughout our conversation I was constantly aware of the opposite side of the table. The girl opposite boy/man wasn't saying a thing and the man opposite me, and next to her, was making her look overly chatty. They sat and avoided looking at each other and the silence between them really was deafening. I should defend the girl. She had really lucked out with her 'starter man'. I think he deserves his own paragraph actually. Here goes:

I'll sketch him out for you. Probably the shortest man in the room, he was permanently stoop shouldered. This was good as it showed off his pattered, knitted cardigan which was buttoned up to the top. All the way to the neck sort of top. He didn't seem to like to look up that much, which was also good as it gave me a perfect view of his combed forward hair with its coating of brylcream (or maybe engine grease). Most disconcerting of all though was the fact that he was to spend his entire time unconsciously trying to touch his nose with his tongue. Honestly. I'm not making this up. You couldn't make it up. Have you ever tried to carry on a conversation with someone whilst opposite you there is a man trying to touch his nose with his tongue. You can't. It's disgustingly mesmerising. You want to ask him to stop but it feels rude. Taking pity on the poor girl next to him, who he had failed to talk to and who hadn't (sensibly) tried to talk to him, I asked her what she did.

She turned out to be an ex occupational therapist who was currently writing three books. The 'most literary one' (and I quote directly) was set in the 1970's and was about a farmers wife who becomes a porn star. Really? Truly? This girl is who you would see if you looked up the word 'meek' in the dictionary and there was a picture illustration. She wasn't going to say boo to a puppy, let alone a wolf and she was writing the great literary novel of our times about Farmer Giles's porn star wife? Tongue to Nose man speeded up his tongue to nose action. Eeerugh.

Feeling faintly queasy, and having got the author to talk to the boy/man tractor driver, I turned to my right as the starters arrived. Chicken Liver Pate with one lone piece of bread. Why do they do that in pubs? Give you a great block of pate and a tiny piece of bread so that you can't actually eat any of it? Actually it turned out to be a good thing as the first bite revealed that it was possibly pureed pedigree chum, not chicken liver pate. Toying with the artfully arranged raw onion and red pepper garnish I studied my companion.

Salt and peppered dark hair, tallish, normalish - very 'ishy' in all. Sadly more wishy than dishy though. On the plus side: no cardigan. Phew. Having introduced ourselves, I asked him what he did. 'I'm a leading expert in agronomy' he replied. I know roughly what that is - something do do with crop production and outputs. He dropped in that he had just been in canada and New Zealand. I expressed awed amazement at his cosmopolitan life. He pulled out his phone to show me photos of New Zealand, and of his ex girlfriend in New Zealand. I looked gripped and wondered what the hell I was doing there.

Further lecturing from my new best friend revealed that he had the solutions for the agricultural slump at his fingertips, if only the world would listen to him. It also revealed that he was essentially a travelling fertiliser salesman who spent his time persecuting farmers into buying stuff they didn't want. I avoided thinking to myself 'hmm, he sells crap for a living'. He carried on telling me all about his exciting life. Other than my name, he still knew nothing about me, nor seemed interested in finding out anything. I heard all about the ex girlfriend, the special needs of maize crops, and how tenant farmers are the future and farm owners are spawn of the devil. I started wondering whether I could force down more of the Pedigree Chum pate in order to induce a vomiting attack and a perfect excuse to leave.

I was saved from the pate and the agronomist by clipboard girl, who announced in a falsely cheery voice that 'it was time to move please gentlemen'. Thank god.

My new companions sat down. To my right was a sprightly, grey haired man with an interesting taste in Mrs Merton style glasses (you know the ones - really pointy corners). To my left was a duplicate of salt and pepper man from course one. I blinked. Had he just swapped sides? No - this one had on a different coloured pair of corduroys and it turned out, had a really exciting job. We began with the 'so how far have you had to come tonight' opening bid. Not too far which boded well, in theory. A single man who lived within twenty miles. I didn't know there were any. He then told me that he commuted four hours a day to get to his job. I put on my awed and amazed face and asked if his job was worth it. Fool. I am a fool.

'Ohhhh yesss.' he replied. 'I'm really lucky. I mean, I have my ideal job. How many people can say that?' I agreed. He was lucky. Intrigued by such enthusiasm I asked for more details.

'I work for East Cheshire council. I'm in charge of'... Wait for it.... 'ROAD WIDTHS'. OH MY GOD.

I didn't have to put on a stunned expression. It was there already. Pleased with the effect his announcement had had on me, he carried on. It turned out that he did all the research back through 'historical council documentation' into what widths roads should be. It also emerged that he had a 'real passion' which was for (sound the drum roll) bridlepaths. Bridlepaths it seemed, were more of a hobby for him. An amusing past time. Of course they were. So many of us aspire to amusing hobbies and he had snagged the best one. Damn him.

Gripped as I was by his conversation, I hadn't noticed the main course arriving. It was steak and there was good reason for the steak knives. You needed a chainsaw to get into them. The side dish was 'mixed vegetables'. I don't actually know what they were as they were topped off with red cabbage which had dyed them all to the same shade of purple as the cabbage.

I'll confess that by now I was panicking. Was this what I had paid forty hard earned english pounds for? I couldn't drown my sorrows in my one free glass of red wine because A) it had burnt the inside of my mouth with the first sip and B) I was driving. I started to feel like a hunted animal and looked longingly out of the window at my car.

I realised I couldn't do this. Bridlepath man was telling me with great enthusiasm about a knotty right of way problem that he had solved to the detriment of all parties. Over the table, the porn writer was trailing her scarf through the vegetables as she leaned in to give a glimpse of her push up bra. Opposite me, botox farmer had joined us and was roaring with laughter at his own joke. In desperation, I turned to Mr Merton on my right. He turned out to be a very nice widower who disliked 'all the brassicas' and had seen porn writer in her dressing gown earlier on (they were staying at the same place) which might explain why he spent most of our conversation gazing longingly over my congealed steak at her.

I'd love to tell you more about my pudding companions but I will admit right now that I panicked, and ran for it. The prospect of two more dinner companions and black forest cheesecake was too much to bear. I used Chutney Mary's imminent arrival at my house as an excuse and I fled the scene.

No more internet arranged dating for me, ever again. I officially give up.

Now, does anyone have a failing maize crop or a bridlepath dispute? I know just the men to help you out.

Hospitality Man - a tale of woe.

I'm really not sure where to start. Friday seems a long time ago and I have had a weekend of friends and godchildren to try and forget the hideousness of the big date(thank the lord). However a promise is a promise, so I shall relive the experience of the last of the cybermen for your edification.

Friday morning saw me rather frantically getting ready for my much anticipated date. You know what it is like when you are in a rush? Suddenly there are a million and one things to do, none of which are things you actually want to do. Somehow, in between client phone calls, I dug up some clean clothes and found my makeup which I remembered to apply. I even located my hairbrush and was in the car and on my way in good time.

I looked ok, as good as I could hope for and as I drove to our meeting place my stomach churned queasily at the prospect ahead of me. Was this going to be another disaster or, more frightening still, somebody sane and normal and interested? I really wasn't sure which prospect made me more nervous.

I arrived a little early and headed for the pub to find that it was closed. Oops. Crossing my fingers that I hadn't made a hideous error and suggested a meeting place that wouldn't open at all, I waited outside the front door. There was no sign of HM (hospitality man) but I found myself scanning the faces of everyone who passed by wondering if they might be him. Absorbed in this entertaining pasttime I was pulled out of my reverie by a voice shouting my name from an upstairs window. It was Andy, my friend who runs the pub.

He came downstairs and let me in through the staff door and ensconsed me at the bar. I instantly told him that I was there on a blind date and filled him in on all we knew. He promised to duck out of the way as soon as HM arrived and we moved onto chatting about other things. Soon enough the pub opened for business and early lunch guests started turning up. The bar was still quiet though so I couldn't help but notice when a lone man came up and stood just round the corner of the bar from me.

He wasn't exactly like his photo, but then nobody ever is, so I decided to take the plunge and turning to him said 'Hospitality Man?' in what I would think is a friendly tone. He turned. He stared at me blankly with no recognition whatsover. He turned again and stared at the bar before turning back to look at me once more. I started to feel a blush rise across my face. How mortifying. I had obviously just accosted a stranger and he couldn't work out how to tell me so. Aaaaargh. He turned back to the bar and ordered a drink and I turned back to Andy to wince and carry on our interrupted conversation. But it didn't feel right. I was sure the man next to me was HM. I turned back again and there he was, staring at me. He put out his hand and I, not wanting to be rude, took it. He shook it without speaking then said 'Hospitality Man,'.

I was rather flustered by this and must have had an interesting expression on my face. A combination of relief that I hadn't been mistaken, and horror that I hadn't been mistaken. This was him. The man that had been e mailing nearly non stop all week. He wasn't a horror to look at or anything but neither did my heart go 'pit a pat' or my knees go week. (I wasn't really thinking either of those things would happen but a girl can hope). Still, it was early days and we had both made it to the assignation. Who knew what lay ahead of us? He still seemed incapable of saying anything so I suggested we move from the bar to a table. Since he seemed unable to do anything but stare at this point, I led the way and found a table round the corner where we both sat down. Bear in mind that he still hadn't really said anything other than his name at this point.

Once we sat down, he put out his hand and said once more 'Hospitality Man'. Being British, and unfailingly polite, I shook his hand and introduced myself again. He gazed speechlessly at me and I carefully removed my hand from his grasp. To break the silence I asked whether he had found the pub without any problems. He stared at the wall ahead of him and took several deep breaths. I wondered nervously if asking him if he found the pub was an offensive opening bid. Finally he spoke. "Do you think we can sit outside?" he said. I'm pretty sure he said that anyway. It turned out that he spoke with a south african accent and in a mumbling tone that you would expect from someone wearing ill fitting false teeth. "Certainly" I said. Up we got from our table and went outside and found a new table. Once we had sat down he again proferred his hand. I again took it. He shook it, again. He introduced himself, again.

At this point we have spent five minutes together and I am already feeling desperate. However, this is obviously his first 'blind date' so I decide that I had better try to get the ball rolling and say 'So, this would be your first blind date then'. He looks away from me and stares across the river. He draws a breath, as though he is going to speak and I look at him expectantly. He lets it out. He draws another. Finally he says 'so you have done this before?'. Relieved to have got a complete sentence that didn't involve an introduction out of him, I reply that I have and add that they are always awkward to start with. He starts several sentences but never finishes them. This makes having a conversation quite awkward. I decide to try a new tack. This has the same result.

We are now ten minutes in and I am already wondering whether throwing myself into the river might look desperate. Suddenly HM lurches into action. "Would you" he asks "be a good mother?" WHAT? That's his first question??? Seriously? I answer that I would be ok I supposed but that I didn't long for babies. He offers nothing back himself on this topic but after some more staring and failed sentences he suddenly says: "our eyes are the same colour". I agree that they are similar, though it is difficult to compare them as I don't have a mirror handy. Facetious I know but I couldn't help it. He then seizes the conversation once more and says: "what kind of wedding would you have?" The direction the conversation is going in is a little alarming but at least he is actually talking. Each answer I give involves him sucking my words up like a hoover and, with lips pursed (a personal hatred of mine) he would stare into space. If I asked him a question he simple couldn't answer it. It didn't matter what avenue I tried. Each one ended the same, with an awkward silence which he ignored by staring into space or staring at me in what I can only describe as wonderment.

He then asks why I live in Wales. I answer. Three minutes later, he asks why I live in Wales. I point out that I have just answered this question but he seems to think that it is not the same question if you ask it twice so I answered, again. At this point I have drained my drink and am wondering if it is too early for a triple vodka and tonic but he shows no sign of noticing that I have an empty glass and I am uncertain of how to excuse myself so early in the conversation. Luckily nature comes to my rescue and it starts to rain. I suggest we move back in (he seemed oblivious to the fact that we were getting drenched). As we pass the bar I realise that if I get myself another drink I'll have to stay longer. I decide death by dehydration would be better and we find another table to sit at.

I then struggle to find things to talk about. How was his interview? How long has he been in his last job? How did he like living in South Africa? None of these questions generate answers longer than a sentence so I start running out of gambits all too quickly. Every answer involves him starting into space for a disconcertingly long time, heaving in deep breaths as though he is going to answer, then letting them out without saying another word. Occasionally I try to prompt him but it is useless. He seems oblivious to the awkwardness of the whole thing. Indeed one of the complete sentences he gives me is how amazing it is to meet me and how he is struggling to come to terms with the idea of us. I am now worried.

Even worse, he would suddenly fire a question at me. This would be unrelated to anything else we might be trying to talk about at that moment. An example of this would be when he said to me 'Girl or Boy?' I looked blankly at him. Was this some kind of a test? Was he not sure what I was? which direction my sexual orientation was? I went with the first option and said 'Girl'. For once he wasn't lost for words and said 'Why'. I was bewildered but tried to help out by pointing out that I knew I was a girl because I didn't have the necessary anatomy to make me a boy. Seeing his expression I suddenly realise he was still on the baby / motherhood question and wanted to know which I would like, a girl or a boy.

Vexed I answered that is was a pointless question as you can't control what you get so wishing for one or the other is a sure road to disappointment. At this point I realise I can't keep going for much longer. I make up an appointment with the accountants and explain that I will need to leave.

He looks crestfallen and says that he was hoping to take me out for lunch (possibly on to a registry office afterwards?). I gently point out that I had only agreed to a drink and that I don't have time for lunch. He then eagerly says that he can meet me again on Saturday. Having already told him that I have friends staying for the weekend I am surprised at this. I remind him of the houseguests and he says 'are they not the sort of friends who would like to meet me?'. I firmly squash this and reply that we are going to be busy all weekend and he can't see me at anypoint in the weekend. 'Well' he says, 'when can I see you again?' Resisting the urge to say 'never' I say I will e mail him but that I am VERY busy for the next six years or so, and for the fourth, and hopefully last time, I shake his hand and leave him in the pub. Still staring at the wall and gaping like a fish. He was probably mid sentence but I didn't have the time to stay and find out.

Despite the fact that I had shopping I needed to do in order to feed my friends at the weekend, I fled the town. I arrived home and without further ado wrote my first 'Dear John' e mail. I very much hope that that will be the last I ever see or hear of him. Thinking of him now makes me go 'eeeeurgh' and shudder.

I officially give up on internet dating. Cybermen are all nutters and I can't put myself through this anymore. The Loyal Hound and I will have to grow old together and I shall start wearing purple and hats and banging my stick along the railings. It has to be a better way to live....

Possibly the worst one yet.

I'm alive. He wasn't an axe murderer. However if there was an axe to hand I was tempted to use it. This may have been the worst date yet.

I'm sorry to leave you in suspense but I have friends arriving to stay for the weekend any minute now, so I can't regale you with the story until Monday. I have though managed to e mail off a 'Dear John' to Hospitality Man to explain that I will never again be hospitable with him. I suspect he will cry upon receiving it.....

Oh God, I think we might be meeting up....

It turned out to be the nicer of the two potentials who had paid for the sub. That's good isn't it?? Or does it mean he isn't actually nice but finds his victims by paying for three days of internet dating subscription for them?

Anyway, there has been a flurry of e mails and he is obviously deluded since he has decided that I am God's gift to internet dating. Seriously, he has. Hold on and I'll get some of his e mails off the site and put them here so you can judge for yourselves.... Here goes:

He says that I have "a most captivating smile hinting at the nature of your character" and that "Frankly,i'm quite taken aback by the fact that a random decision to join this site has resulted in....well,meeting up with someone like you.." and then "I am truly,truly still coming to grips with the fact that one can get a sense of empathy with someone never met or laid eyes on."

This is good isn't it? Or is it the sign of a deranged person? Aaargh. I don't know.

So what else do you need to know? He is tall (hooray - a man who is taller than me!), he doesn't wear cravats (I had to check), he seems to have a sense of humour, he works in the hospitality industry, he is VERY keen. He has already given me his e mail address, telephone number and skype address and he wants to meet on Friday because he is coming to caernarvon for work.

Should I? Meet him I mean. If I do, at least I get to find out now whether the whole thing is worth pursuing or not. That's a good thing isn't it? Typically he won't have a car so I'll have to drive there and it is about an hour and a quarter for a cup of coffee then the same back. Annoying if he is as disastrous as all the other cybermen.

Advice please. Do I meet up with him or not?

Emergency Poll - feedback needed asap!!!

To subscribe or not to subscribe, That was going to be the question. You see, the last cyber dating hell site that I was on never took my details off the site when I cancelled my membership (after Cravat man and composer man I felt there was no hope left in the world). In the last week or so I have had a couple of e mails from random cyber men who have seen my details and mistaken me for Cindy Crawford crossed with Victoria Wood (easy mistake to make). One of them sounded quite nice, and the other was friendly, so I sent them one of the set (and free) one liners provided by the service to say that my subscription had run out etc etc. I then sat and pondered whether I should reactivate myself (metaphorically and on line).

That was going to be the topic of this fascinating blog entry. I had a whole poll worked out which you - my fascinated readers - would have eagerly filled in. All decision making would then have been taken out of my incapable hands and the resulting chaos would have been your fault. It was a good plan and I do like it when a plan comes together.

Only this one didn't. Just as I started writing this post an e mail dropped into my inbox from one of the cybermen. He has PAID FOR MY ACCOUNT FOR ME!!! Just for three days mind, but still, that's keen isn't it? Or is it, in fact, stalkerish? Am I now obligated to bear his children and wash his socks for evermore? And on an etiquette front, is it rude to use the free sub he has given me to e mail the other cyberman as well?

So, new poll for you.

Is the latest Cyberman a stalker or a gentleman?
Do I have to bear his children for him in return for three days subscription to cyberhell? If not his children, must I give him my e mail address, bank account details and mother's maiden name?
Can I e mail the other cyberman (possibly the nicer one) without being plagued by guilt that cyberman one has enabled it.

Answers asap please. The subscription is running out as I type....

New Cyberman stomps onto the scene...

I have been seriously thinking about ditching the internet dating. I resent paying to be snubbed by men I haven't even met. I know men already who are all too happy to snub me for free. Besides so far in this dating malarkey, let's face it, there have not been any success stories. Remember Cravat Man? Pilot Man? Need I go on?

The latest cyberman is intriguing though. Let me introduce you to 'Composer Man'. A self confessed workaholic his photograph shows a fierce looking man with a tousle of dark hair and a large glass of wine. The wine is a good indication surely? The fierce look is a little intimidating but then I decided that it was a good thing that he didn't care that he looked all cross in his photograph. There are too many carefully posed photos of the cybermen out there which is always a little suspicious to my mind. My heart didn't go 'pitter patter' when I saw the photograph but then my heart rarely does that, and if it did I would suspect Angina rather than Love. Also, so far every one of the cybermen that I have met up with has looked like the second cousin to his own photo so they aren't that helpful as a judging aid.

Now I should warn you that composer man is not the world's greatest romantic. In fact he defines the classic repressed Englishman who has no tact and little concept of the effects of his conversation on those around him. Oh, you want proof of this do you? Ok, here goes. Here are just a couple of extracts from some of his e mails to me.

'I have to say I find the Welsh rather an odd bunch' This is always a good start to a blossoming relationship. Tell the welsh girl you think she comes from a nation of odd people!

'Your reply, within the limits of the English language , endears me to you.' Fabulously stilted and rather Georgian somehow. Actually this one got bonus points because he went on to say that I was a girl who 'transcends the ordinary'. So thumbs up for him on this one.

This one is my favourite 'I'm almost getting to like the sound of you.' I'm not sure what you are supposed to say to such an overwhelming compliment. Swoon gracefully away perhaps? The fact that he isn't getting to like me, but is almost getting there. Be still my beating heart. I think I'm having an angina attack....

Instead I took the plunge and suggested that we meet up. He has sent me his number and I have to be brave and ring him. I have no idea what to expect or what to say for that matter. 'Hello, I'm the odd welsh girl you almost like?' doesn't seem like the best opening ever. Any suggestions?

Cyber dumped, I think......

So, it is nearly two weeks since I met up with Pilot man, the best of the cyber men to have come my way. We had a pretty good time all in all, though there was no particular jolt of attraction on my side at least (I don't know about him) and at the end of our date he suggested that we meet up again. He suggested, not me. He is based in Manchester this week and so it was agreed that this would be a good time to meet up. That was the plan.

Since then - NOTHING. Not a text message, a phone call, an anonymous note, or a carrier pigeon. I sent him a brief friendly e mail last week saying thank you for lunch and that it would be lovely to meet up again. I haven't even had a reply to that. I can't read anything good into this deafening silence.

Have I been dumped? If I have then why can't he at least e mail me to say 'I'm really sorry but I don't think this is going to work.' Is that not the done thing? Or is this just typical dating behaviour and I am living in a Georgette Heyer novel to expect actual communication?

Should I be ringing him to find out what is happening? Is this a test? Am I supposed to just know that he doesn't want to see me again because he hasn't rung, or is he just a useless male who hasn't noticed that two weeks have gone by and we haven't spoken. I didn't think he was that dozy to be honest and suspect this is a major hint that I am dumped, did not live up to expectations and was a waste of his time. But what if I'm wrong?

It's a dilemma. If I don't ring then he might think that I wasn't interested. If I do ring then he might hang up on me then change his number and move to Guatemala because all he wants is to never see me again, hence his deafening silence over the last fortnight which I was supposed to recognise as a firm 'bugger off' signal. The etiquette of this whole thing baffles me.

God, this dating thing is hard work. My heart isn't broken or anything but I would like to know where I stand. How on earth do I find out though? Help please.

Who says Prince Charming isn't out there?

I have been a little slack recently about checking up on the old internet dating site. What with one thing and another it moved to the bottom of the heap of priorities, and then to the bottom of the heap of things that were lost beneath the priorities. However, today I thought I would log on and have a look at who was out there. Imagine my surprise when I find that ROYALTY is out there a wooing... and wooing me it seems. He is currently my Number 1 fan. This is what he has to say for himself:

"I am Prince Onyeka
Handsome man looking for that special soul mate to share all of life up and downs , very outgoing honest and yes i don't play games , slim build for now chose me and i will do everything to make you happy meaning cook clean and yes i can do laundry and i will even pick up the milk call during the just to hear your voice very kind honest and loyal i promises never to make you cry or even shed a single tear ,if interested just drop me a line trust me your friends will be jealous your friend will wonder why there soul mate doesn't do that for them."

The fact that he lives in Ghana might make dating a little tricky but what do you think? I like the fact that he is 'slim build for now' - is he hoping I will feed him up? It's tempting, very tempting, particularly if you could see his photo where he sports a jauntily positioned white baseball cap in a very Back Street Boys fashion.......

At War with the Cybermen

So, in an effort to shut up my married friends, my mother and the farmer at the bottom of the road, I have signed up for some internet dating. This is not undertaken lightly. My previous experiences of this have been disastrous. Here are few of the pitfalls that you can expect:

Personality Transplant Man: this is the man who obviously hires somebody to e mail you with witty and amusing sonnets, thereby luring you into agreeing to meet. At which point the sonnet writer is summarily fired and you get to meet the geek who has been locked in his office basement for the last four years and can't see properly in real daylight. One of the ones that I met had knitted a sweater out of his beard... need I say more.

Snub Man: these are the ones who you mark as a favourite in the hopes of having a pointless e mail conversation with him in order to avoid doing any actual work. However, having glanced at your profile which you have judiciously amended to sound more like Nigella Lawson than yourself, they refuse to mark you as a favourite. They snub you. Cold. It cuts to the quick to find that a complete stranger doesn't think you are interesting enough to even e mail saying 'bugger off you lying baggage - I know Nigella, and she isn't you'. ~Very hurtful.

No Interest Whatsoever: one of the sites I tried I got no interest from anyone. Not even the nerd in the hair shirt. Nothing. Niente. Being filled with boundless self confidence I decided this was due to a technological glitch and e mailed the administrators to explain that the tidal wave of interest in me had quite obviously crashed their system and could they forward on all the gushing e mails of admiration that I must have received. They replied that nobody was interested and perhaps I should change my photo. I don't think I have recovered from this blow. It was the only photo of me worth looking at - it didn't even really look that much like me by the time I had finished photo shopping it and airbrushing out most of myself. How could they?????

Having given you a glimpse into the hellish life of internet dating you should now all be amazed at my bravery and gallant courage. I am launching myself like a tow boat onto the stormy waters of the cyber men. Anyone out there looking for a cyber woman????