Full moon in November...I want to howl

Do you remember that old 1970's classic, 'Another Saturday night, and I ain't got nobody....'? Well, that's me. Beautiful (well, through the bottom of a heavy wineglass), funny (sometimes), solvent (mostly), running my own business, and no longer encumbered by really tiny kids. You'd think they would be queuing round the block, wouldn't you?

But no. You can't blame my poor marketing - I've told everyone I know to find me a kind-hearted man in his 40s or 50s with all his own teeth; I've signed up for every dating website I could find - well, except the really weird ones. Short of putting a sign up outside the house, it's beginning to feel like that Australian holiday marketing campaign: you know, the one that ends with '..... so where the b***** hell are you?'

I've had some helpful and some not so helpful advice from friends. The next person who tells me that Mr Right is going to show up 'when I least expect it' is going to get a sock in the teeth. I could give you the names of a dozen people I know, right now, who are single precisely because they have lived their lives like that. Who do they think I am, Jane Austen? Anyway, she was dead by the time she was 41. And if anyone else tries to tell me that I should make sure I go 'where all the men go' I will reply (although not entirely truthfully) that I got thrown out of the Masonic Lodge and no-one in the toilets in Perceval Square seemed remotely interested in the opposite sex.

It's full moon in November and I want to howl. I bought a nice new frock for Christmas celebrations but so far, I've only been invited to the Childminders' Party (well, that's not strictly true, my four-year-old has). By the time the next moon is full, I want a full social calendar booked and a nice, kind bloke to go out with. No beards, no-one over 5'11" tall, and I'll even date an Englishman if I have to (well, I am from Essex). That's hardly fussy, is it?