Back to reality

In a desperate attempt to provide some positive news, I have to admit to misleading you about my feelings for Sarah (although I’m sure that the sob stories make better reading, anyway). The reality was that despite enjoying her company (and a much-needed snog) at the weekend, I had no desire to have a long-term relationship with Sarah.

It’s so rare that a woman shows an interest in me on anything other than a platonic basis, I get more excited than I should when it does happen. In all honesty, Sarah is a nice woman with a lot of qualities. But on a superficial level, she couldn’t be less my type. She reminded me very much of one of my ex-girlfriends. A ‘traditionalist’ might be the kindest description. Someone described Sarah as having a warm and friendly face, with character. But so does Father Christmas – and I’m certainly not interested in the contents of his sack. And she’s a Daily Mail reader.

But the idea of having someone with whom to explore a new city, go on a few weekends away (and particularly as someone who would pay her own way financially) and to enjoy the other benefits of being in a relationship appealed in the short term.

Not that Sarah could have known that she isn’t the woman of my dreams because I had said all the right things in texts and emails in the 72 hours between our initial meeting and our date. So we met up in the City on Wednesday evening and were soon snuggled up on a leather sofa. Everything was fine for the first 30 minutes, as we chatted away while holding hands, occasionally breaking off to kiss (I know this sounds inconsistent with what I wrote above, but Christmas is a lonely time).

But then Sarah let slip that it was a long way from Essex to Bristol. I concurred, but said that wouldn’t be a problem if we didn’t want it to be. In fact, I found the idea that I would probably see her only once a fortnight quite amenable – as long as it wasn’t when West Ham were playing at home.

She was just apologising for putting a dampener on our prospects when she said that she didn’t have a free weekend until March (even bizarrely claiming that she hardly had a free evening). Before that had registered, Sarah then said that she didn’t want a relationship, as she was enjoying being single after finishing with someone in July (she said that she has been ‘surprised’ by the effect I had had on her). It was as is she had a form of Tourette’s, continually barking out excuses why the relationship had no future.

The whole time, we were wrapped round each other on the sofa (you know those unpalatable over-tactile couples that you want to shout ‘get a room’ at – that was us). To my embarrassment, I tried to persuade her to change her mind. She admitted that she was more than tempted to take things further on a base level, as she really fancied me, but used the moral high ground of never having had a ‘casual relationship’ to quash her feelings. It was all a question of ‘bad timing’, according to Sarah.

I asked her where we went from here. Sarah shrugged, but was more than happy to sit there till closing time, making small talk and kissing. I finished my beer immediately (well, it probably took 20 minutes – I did have a third of a pint left) and walked her to Liverpool Street station. I almost lost my temper when she kept asking where I was taking her. Did she think I was going to kidnap her and not let her go until she acquiesced?

Sarah was apologetic, but admitted that she hadn’t thought her feelings through before turning up at the pub. But I found that hard to believe, as I was the first bloke she had been near for five months, while she had discussed the subject with all her friends and had admitted to her colleagues that she was going on a ‘date’. I only wish that I had known things were not going to progress beyond a very average kiss that night in the Peak District, because the other two women (a stunning lawyer and a feisty woman who has paid off the mortgage on her riverside apartment by the age of 36) in the group were far more what I am looking for.

To top it all, I had to buy the drinks.

Everything is ship-shape and Bristol fashion

There was no awkwardness on Sunday morning. Despite our drunkenness – her more than me, as she had sat in the pub for seven hours – perhaps our actions had been borne out of something a little deeper.

I don’t know whether it was the fact that we had done two or three dates worth of talking, but overnight we had strangely become two people in the early stages of ‘coupledom’. We hung at the back of the group, holding hands, gazing into each others' eyes and kissing. We were like a couple of love-struck teenagers.

At the end of the walk, I took her number. The Bristolian told me that she would hopefully be in London for a meeting before Christmas. I texted her on the way home and a few more messages went back and forth during Sunday evening.

I was off work the following day, and when I logged on to my computer, I had received an email saying that she would be in London on Wednesday – and did I fancy meeting up.

We exchanged emails all day. The conversation on Saturday night had been interesting (the fact that she had written a book and done two marathons clinched the deal from my point of view), but there hadn’t been any particular spark. Was it was just a case of two single people with a lot in common having a snog?

But the emails had ratcheted things up several degrees. The banter was good and there was plenty of flirting. This woman was clearly very keen on me. And despite one or two concerns (primarily the fact that we live 200 miles apart), I am very fond of her. I’m really looking forward to tomorrow night.

Walking on air

The journey from Epping to the village of Castleton, in the Peak District, took six hours last Friday afternoon. It was cold and miserable, but my best mate, who runs an outdoors-activities company, had told me that this walking weekend was ‘unmissable’, as it was going to be ‘heaving with single women’. So in the interests of providing material for this blog, I felt duty-bound to attend.

In the evening, I dragged myself around five of the village’s six pubs. As if my chances of pulling weren't slim enough, sitting at the bar like a Billy-no-Mates doing the Sun crossword, I was wearing a will4adventure.com t-shirt (hardly a sartorial statement), as requested by my mate, so that any of his clients could come over and introduce themselves. But nobody did.

After five hours (12 across was particularly tricky), I gave up and headed back to the hostel to bed. But the cold (the room was an old stable block, and despite me appropriating most of the available blankets, I was shivering all night) and the noisiness of my room-mates returning drunk at intervals throughout the small hours, ensured that I didn’t close my eyes all night.

Things didn’t get any better when I met my fellow walkers – the woman that my mate had considered ‘my type’ had failed to turn up. I took one look at the others (estimating that six were single), decided that I didn’t fancy any of them (in fairness, it is hard to look good in walking clothes) and proceeded to spend the entire day bemoaning my love life to my best mate’s missus. And I had forsaken a day's wages for this.

At the end of what was a beautiful walk, I headed back to the hostel to get smartened up, while a few headed straight for the pub. When I got there, two women from Bristol were sitting in the company of my best mate. I settled down and we proceeded to have a good conversation, mainly about being single in your thirties (as they both were).

One of the women went upstairs to freshen up, while the other remained in the bar. More and more of the group gradually joined us. I got chatting to the remaining Bristolian and we were soon having a good conversation. Her mate returned, while another of the single women turned up, having made a real effort (although she couldn’t shake off the other single man in the group, who rarely left her side all weekend).

Now I’m not particularly into high-maintenance women, but I would generally draw the line at chatting up a woman who was wearing filthy walking boots and a skanky fleece. But the conversation was good – and the beer flowing.

One by one, everyone else went to bed. My best mate and his wife were driving back to Sheffield and offered me a warm bed in their house. I declined. It was soon just the two of us. I’d had no particular positive signs during the evening (I’d popped over for a pep-talk from my best mate’s missus halfway through the evening, and she had agreed that the Bristolian’s body language was not great). In fact, there had been an anorak on the bench seat between us all night.

But I slowly worked my way to sitting with our legs touching, before subtly putting my arm behind her. When she started leaning back against me, I was beginning to think that my luck might be changing.

Within minutes, we were snogging and, in all honesty, being a little more tactile than polite company allows – particularly in a brightly lit pub. Unfortunately, last orders rang, and after a frenzied kiss in the corridor outside the toilets, I was on my way back to my dorm – with a huge smile on my face.

Party pooper

In my opinion, parties are the best places for meeting people.You don’t need an opening line – you can just ask how they know the host.

So I had high hopes for last weekend, as I had been invited to my best mate’s housewarming party – my first house party for longer than I could remember. Not only would I know most people there, but everybody had been asked to bring a single friend. I had even been guaranteed the presence of two ‘suitable’ women.

So to say I was disappointed, after setting aside an entire weekend to travel to Sheffield, to find that the ‘suitable’ women were my best mate’s wife’s teenage cousins and the only other female singleton was her sister (who I have yet to have a conversation with, despite having known for more than two years), would be a huge understatement.

The week got worse. A few days later, I had almost £17,000 of work cancelled for next year, and received a letter telling me that an ISA into which I had invested £16,000 over the past eight years had not only earned no interest, but was now worth £11,000.

As I couldn’t feel much worse, I decided to ask out a cute woman in the office in which I have been working this week. She wasn’t the most attractive woman there, but she was my type (short red hair). And, as far as I was concerned, she wasn’t out of my league.

Of course, I didn’t have the courage to ask her face to face. Instead, I put a business card on her keyboard (late at night when there was nobody around) saying: ‘In the unlikely event that you are single, I’d like to buy you a drink.’

Perhaps the cleaner threw away the card before she had seen it. Perhaps she was appalled by the quality of my business card (the card is very thin – but what do you expect for free?). But she hasn’t responded.

So I’m off to the Peak District tomorrow for a walking weekend organised by my best mate’s company (will4adventure.com). He has said it will be chock-a-block with single women, one of whom he thinks I would like. Bearing in mind it was him who promised two suitable women at last week’s party, I am not too hopeful.

Net loss

I’ve been getting ‘interest’ on Dating Direct from more countries than Michael Palin has visited. There have been ‘visits’ from France, Germany, the US, Philippines, Indonesian and Portugal, as well as ‘winks’ from Colombia, Kenya, Qatar, St Lucia, the US, Bulgaria, Peru, Norway, South Africa, Russia and Vietnam (none of whom had even looked at my profile first).

I also had a rare ‘chat’ request. It was from a woman in Ghana without a picture. ‘How are you?’ she wrote. I ignored it. Ten minutes later, she repeated her fascinating missive. When she contacted me for a third time (with exactly the same message), I lost patience. ‘Go away,' I typed. ‘OK, I will go away,’ she replied. I almost felt sorry for her. But what did she really expect?

More worrying than the lack of interest from anyone who didn’t live a long-haul flight away (and I regarded my ex living in Hertfordshire as a problem) was a surfeit of women that I wanted to contact. Despite trawling the website for hours, I found only one woman who I was interested in contacting – apart from those who had already ignored previous emails.

As a result, I decided to quit my subscription the day before my trial week expired. Typical of Dating Direct, though, my bank account was still debited for three months’ membership. After a couple of terse emails, they agreed to refund me.

So it’s back into the real world I go.

International rescue?

Dating Direct is pulling every trick to get me to extend my membership past the initial week. The problem is that its strategy is attracting only women from overseas. In the past 24 hours, I have had more ‘views’ or ‘winks’ than during any single day in the 18 months I have been signed up to the website. Among a smattering (about 10%) from England, I have had interest from Russia, Cyprus, the Channel Islands, Italy, Bolivia, Vietnam, Scotland, Norway, Libya, South Africa and Romania. Most of the women haven’t got pictures of themeselves and their ages range from 18 to 65.

Why would a wink from a faceless woman in La Paz encourage me to part with my money, even if the first line of her profile reads: ‘I am a very lonely woman in need of some immediate attention.’

Words don't come easy

I’d been thinking about rejoining Dating Direct for a couple of weeks. I’d received a couple of emails (from women in this country!) that I wanted to read. Then I was sent a message offering me a week’s membership for a quid. So I was straight in there.

Neither of the emails was very exciting. Both were entitled ‘Hi’. Both were short. The more interesting one was from a woman with a child. Been there, done that. The other one read simply, ‘fancy a banter?’ Not with you, thanks for asking.

An hour after I had read the emails, the sender of the latter contacted me again: ‘say hi its (sic) my last eve tonight I dont (sic) bite ????’ As I generally believe in being courteous, I sent her a message saying; ‘Thanks for your messages. I’m afraid that we are not suited. Good luck in your hunt for Mr Right.’ Two minutes later, she replied: ‘im (sic) not asking you to marry me.’

Indeed, but why waste time emailing someone that you’re not attracted towards on any level, ticks none of the boxes you want ticked – and has a six-year-old’s understanding of grammar.

A few minutes later, another email popped into my inbox. Breaking all the rules, it was imaginatively headed ‘hi’. Why is there so little creativity out there? I’ve spent up to 20 minutes thinking about a subject line for one of my emails. Anyway, the message read: ‘Smooth or crunchie?’ I liked it – even if she couldn’t spell one of the three words she had typed. It was a reference to my profile listing peanut butter as among my favourite things. Unfortunately, the sender was 40 and had a child.

It beats me why women don’t read your criteria before contacting you. Mine clearly states that I am looking for someone with a maximum age of 37. I don’t contact women that have stipulated a minimum height of six foot. It’s a waste of everyone’s time.

Silence ain't golden

I contacted three people last week who, perhaps, I shouldn’t have.
First, I texted the doctor. All I asked was ‘still friends?’ Seemingly not, as she has failed to reply. I’m disappointed because I don’t want to lose touch with her. She’s good company and one of an ever-declining group of people I can call on when I want a night out. Plus, she may have a nice single friend (although she is nice and single herself).

Second, was my ex-girlfriend. I sent her a couple of texts asking whether she read this blog (I couldn’t remember whether I had sent her the address) and another on the subject of a standing joke. None of them merited a reply. I was equally disappointed. I know it’s not the done thing to stay in contact with old flames, but the nature and brevity of our relationship should not preclude this. It was only a few weeks before she ‘announced’ her new relationship that she was talking about meeting up, and only a couple of weeks before, she initiated a conversation on Facebook.

Maybe her ignoring me is best for my peace of my mind – in the long run. As I’ve said before, I am struggling to come to terms with her new relationship. And I admit that when she revealed who her new bloke was, I looked him up on Facebook. I wanted to know whether he was better looking, younger or taller than me. All I’m going to say is that there are more than 300 pictures of him on the website.

This time last year, we were very close friends. We’d had a very enjoyable kiss, but she didn’t seem to want a relationship. I turned down an invitation to her 30th birthday party, and she texted me twice during the evening saying how much she was wishing I was there. Although I wanted more from our relationship, what we had was still amazing. After a complicated few months, we were a couple for about 12 weeks in the spring. So having been very close for a year, why just because we shared a bed (very occasionally) for three months am I not allowed to have any contact with one of the best friends I have ever had?

Third was a woman who lives in the flat opposite me. I saw her coming back from a run one day, probably about three years ago. Then a few days later, she was returning from Tesco with ‘shopping for one’. As she looked more my age than most of my neighbours (who are mostly couples, anyway), I put a note through her letterbox, asking her out.

I heard nothing for a few days, then Michelle emailed me. She said that she was flattered, but had met a bloke during a trip to Australia a few months previously, and he was coming to live with her in a couple of weeks. We exchanged a couple of emails, during which it transpired that she was the same age as me, also a self-employed media worker and a Guinness-drinking, curry-loving West Ham fan. She even asked me if I could be her Aussie bloke’s mate, cos he wouldn’t know anyone in London.

After that, we inevitably lost touch. But about a year later, Michelle contacted me. She had split up with her fella. We exchanged a few emails and then embarked on a pretty intense texting ‘relationship’. I’ve still got some of her messages, as they were quite strong, considering that we had never met: ‘I can’t wait to get my hands on you’, ‘I’ll keep you up all night’ and ‘if you’re lucky, you’ll find how bad a sweet girl can be’. She even sent me a couple of photos of herself.

For various reasons (including Michelle temporarily moving to south-west London, while her parents rented her flat), we never got round to meeting. But about two months later, at our annual residents’ meeting, there was somebody sitting across the table from me, who kept looking at me. Having seen Michelle twice only from a distance, I didn’t think it was her. Whoever it was, looked great. But then somebody addressed her by name. So after the meeting, I went over for a chat. I suggested going out for a drink, but she said it was tricky, because she was still living on the other side of London and hadn’t seen her parents for a while.

So Michelle told me to email her. I did a few days later. No reply. I tried again after a few weeks. Nothing. She’s back in Epping now, although I think she’s seeing someone (he looks about 10 years older than me, is overweight and must have been heartbroken when C&A went of business).
Since that few weeks of intense flirting (and Michelle did all the running), I have heard nothing. It’s such a shame, as we have so much in common. Now the only mate I’ve got in Epping is moving to Docklands, so I need a new playmate, as the idea of trekking into London on a Saturday night is becoming increasingly unappealing.

So, in a moment of weakness, I decided that I might as well notch a hat-trick of knockbacks (after the doctor and my ex) and sent this email to Michelle: ‘With my last Epping mate moving to Docklands next month, I’m in even more need of a curry-loving/Guinness- drinking/West Ham-supporting/self-employed media-type runner as a purely platonic playmate. So how about it?’ Nothing.

As good as it gets?

I’m feeling very sorry for myself. You know when you have one of those periods when nothing seems to go right? Well I’m definitely wallowing in one of those.

Problems at work and my gambling losses are beyond the remit of this blog. But the state of my love is the major catalyst (compounded by my ex-girlfriend having met someone else).

In an effort to cheer me up, my best mate took me through all the positives in my life. And there are plenty, as I have detailed in a previous posting (see 20/10). He then said that I have had a 'good year' on the woman front. Suppressing my laughter, I took him through the past 11 months.

February: had dates with two women I met on Dating Direct. Neither wanted to see me again.

March: met ‘the doctor’ (see 23/9) on a weekend in Yorkshire. There was a real connection – and she was single. So I asked her out. She said no.

March: went on a date with a woman I met through a friend. She didn’t want to see me again.

March-June: was seeing my ex-girlfriend (who only agreed to go out with me after several months of pleading).

July: was best man at a wedding, where I gave a speech that was very well received. A woman I have met before came on to me as strongly as anyone ever has. She gave me a kiss and told me not to go anywhere. She never came back. At the end of the evening, I asked a very single older woman for a kiss. She declined.

August: met Gemma in Costa Rica. Got on better with her than any woman I have met since I was 23. We talked non-stop for eight hours. I emailed her a couple of times when I got home. She sent me one dull reply. When I told her how I felt about her, she ignored me.

September: went out with the doctor. Had a great evening. Asked her out again. She said no.

October: emailed five women on Dating Direct. Received no replies.

I suppose I am, for literary effect, being slightly economical with the truth. I didn’t want to see any of the three women I went on dates with in February and March again. Two of them were nightmares. One refused to take her coat and scarf off, then said she wasn’t over her last ‘boyfriend’; they had been together for three weeks. The other was carrying a bag of grapes, ordered the only drink on the cocktails menu that was not part of the happy hour deal and the only thing she had any passion for her was her job (and she was a recruitment consultant). But it would have been a bit of an ego boost if somebody had developed unreciprocated feelings for me, for the first time in my life.

If that’s a ‘good year’, I don’t know whether I will survive a bad one.

Regrets, I've had a few

It must be hard being dumped on Facebook. I’ve just discovered via the website that my ex-girlfriend has got a new bloke – and I’ve found that upsetting enough. Particularly as all her friends are far more excited than when we got together.

It’s a combination of her finding someone new, while I can’t even elicit a smile from a woman, and the fact that I was beginning to think that I had made a mistake splitting up with her.

It’s a long story. But in brief, we met on holiday 15 months ago in Africa. We stayed in touch and became close friends. As has happened countless times over the years, I wanted more from the relationship. But for the first time ever, the subject of my feelings gave in (food certainly is the way to a woman's heart), and we started going out together in March.

She ticked so few of the boxes on every level that were important to me, but she was just so lovely. And she was certainly the most attractive woman ever to have looked at me. But as time went on, not were only the big “issues” still omnipresent, but a couple of new ones came to light. And for that reason, I couldn’t put as much into the relationship as she deserved.

We kissed goodbye one Friday night in early June after a night out in the West End. And although we are still in contact by text and email, we haven’t spoken since. She went on holiday the next day, and when she came home, we split up by email.

I wasn’t that bothered at the time. I had a lot on my plate (I was preparing to be best man at a wedding and was planning a month-long trip to Central America) and being single was less stressful. But as time goes by, I am struggling with the fact that we have never spoken about what happened or heard her view of what I did wrong.

One of my closest female friends says that I’ve just been “unlucky” with women, while a close male friend insists that I am too fussy. I maintain that I am not too choosy, but the fact that a close friend has recently given up his long-held singledom to settle down with someone who, although I’m sure he loves, is not “ideal”, because he doesn’t think he is going to get any other offers, has made me think that I should have put more into my last relationship. Should I have compromised what I am looking for? After all, I’m not getting any younger, as my mum keeps reminding me.

I’ve got only four single male friends – and it’s hard to imagine three of them ever being anything but single. Is that how people see me? I don’t want to be part of that gang. Two of them are in their mid-40s and still live with their parents. They’re lovely lads, but as far as I’m concerned, they would probably fail to trouble the scorer when it comes to a list of criteria that I imagine most women are seeking in a partner.

I, on the other hand, and forgive me if this sounds arrogant, think that I fulfil most requirements (or requirements as I perceive them). I may have a face that only a mother can love, be a couple of inches shorter than I’d like to be (I got the inches elsewhere) and can be pessimistic and a little sarcastic. But I’m a decent chap (I give up my seat on the Tube for pregnant women), well educated (from 13 O Levels to the best journalism course in the country), successful (I have virtually paid off the mortgage on my flat), healthy (I know all the trainers in the gym by name, haven’t had a day off since I left school and can make a pint of Guinness last all night) and respectable (I never eat food off my knife – at least not when anyone is looking). I’m also regularly told that I’m thoughtful, a great listener and very funny.

Yet I’ve had only three short-term relationships in 20 years – and only the one this year was someone who could be regarded as a catch. I don’t want to be on my own for the rest of my life. But my last two experiences of relationships make me unsure that I want to settle down. I’m hoping that they just weren’t the right people. I really don’t know. And that’s half the problem. If I don't know what I want, how can I hope to find it?

Romance is dead

If you’ve logged on expecting some musings about being a single thirtysomething, or the latest episode of unrequited attraction, then you’re going to be disappointed.

My love life is barer than Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard. For the first time in years, there is absolutely nothing going on. I haven’t got my eye on anyone, am not flirting with anybody on email and have no dates lined up.

I did email Gemma in San Jose, telling her exactly how I felt. I didn’t exactly declare undying love, but I did tell her that I fancied her (despite a set of tattoos that most navvies would have covered up). I didn’t get a reply. But as she hadn’t replied to my previous message, I was hardly surprised.

Perhaps next time, I’ll delve into my overflowing annal of sob stories.

Past my sell-by date

I have officially gone into retirement. I have signed off of all dating websites, terminated my gym membership (there’s no need to keep in shape now; I can reclaim my place in Greggs’ hot-pastries queue) and have enquired about buying a litter of cats (if it’s good enough for spinsters, it’s good enough for a confirmed bachelor).

As I feared, my evening out with someone I am very fond of a couple of weeks ago was not a date. The evening flew by, as it did the last time I saw her. But the chemistry that I feel is there obviously doesn’t exist from her point of view.

I must admit that I stormed off at the end of the night, like a stroppy child who hadn’t got his way. I think what upset me most was that she admitted (rather coyly) that she had been reading my blog (and I don’t suppose she meant the ones about West Ham or my other life as a ‘professional’ gambler), which had alluded to our night out. So she knew I still had feelings for her.

Unless someone has got a single friend (in her early-30s, about 5ft 4ins, with short hair and a degree in banter) they can put me in touch with, this might be the last you hear from me for a while. Actually, I think I’m being a little fussy. As long as she’s female and has a pulse, I’m interested – and even the latter isn’t a pre-requisite.

Talking to myself

I hating dating websites. Not that I'd have much of a love life without them. But I still despise them. Internet dating should be my forte. My writing is my trump card. He may not look like an Adonis in his thumbnail profile picture, but his emails are entertaining, so let's give him a go. Alas, it doesn't seem to work like that.

My subscription to Dating Direct runs out tomorrow. So having had an e-conversation with only one woman during my month on the site, I decided to try to get my money's worth. So I emailed four women last night. They all live in London and I was what they were looking for in terms of age, education, background (even height, which is usually the deal-breaker). Two of the four emails were pretty good, because their profiles provided things to pick up on (one said she was looking for a literate explorer' - as a journalist who has been to nearly 50 countries, I think I fit the bill). The other two profiles were pretty bland, and so, consequently, were my emails.

Twenty hours later, three of the women have read my emails. Not one of them has deemed my profile worthy of a visit. They've just seen my message and my profile picture - and decided they are not interested. So with the woman last week (again she didn't check out my profile), that's a 100% failure rate.

I find rejection far harder online. If you meet someone in a bar, you don't know anything about them when they turn you down. They might have a boyfriend. They might be famous or a multi-millionaire and uninterested in 'nobodies'. But online, you know that they are single and what sort of bloke they are seeking. So when you fulfil all of their criteria, it is really infuriating that not only do they not have the courtesy to reply, but they can't even be bothered to click on to your profile and give you the once over.

In the meantime, I received an email from a woman in Essex. I wasn't too optimistic when I saw that the subject line was 'hello'. Can't you think of anything more original? That's what all the women from Russia looking for a British passport put. When I read the first line of the email, I was heading for the bathroom to look for the razor blades: 'I no (sic) Epping Forest like the back of my hand.' Know you don't!! But by the time I had calmed down, I started seeing things in a different light. She may not be particularly literate, and I certainly wasn't attracted towards her, but at least she had clearly read my profile. So I emailed her back and told her that in my 18 months on the site, she was only the second woman who had bothered to read my profile before emailing me (she's probably only the 10th woman in the UK to have emailed rather than winked). I thanked her for her message, but told her we were incompatible. An hour later, she emailed me back and thanked me for bothering to reply. At last, a woman with manners. I almost had a rethink and asked her out. But then I remembered that she was a dog lover.

So that's it. If the last woman who I emailed doesn't reply in the next hour, I've no more irons in the online fire. Still, I've got that 'is-it-a-date-or-just-two-friends-going-out-for-dinner-although-we've-met-
only-once-but-banter-continually-by-text-and-on-Facebook' evening tomorrow night. Watch this space.

A site for sore eyes

I'm going out with the woman I met in February (and who knocked me back) next week. I don't know whether it's a date or not. She appears quite keen. In fact, she has been doing the chasing. I'm going to approach it with an open mind (and wallet).

In the meantime, I have lost touch with Northampton Sarah. I could probably resurrect things if I want, but I'm not sure that I do. So I have been back trawling through the profiles on Dating Direct.

It appears as if there is a template to follow. 'I'm a fun-loving/bubbly/
vivacious [delete as applicable] girl who loves nothing better than a night out with friends at a bar/pub/cinema/ theatre/nightclub [delete as applicable], but also likes a good night on the sofa with a bottle of red/white/rose [delete as applicable] wine and a good DVD/video
[delete as applicable].'

Originality is conspicuous by its absence. But after much searching, I came
across this one.

'I love the outdoors [me too] . . . looking into buying a camper van and have visions holidaying in Spain and France with absolutely no aptitude for the language [I've just returned from a month in Costa Rica and Panama where I ordered food in restaurants by pointing at other diners' plates] . . . sense of humour is massively important - I love funny guys, someone with bite [I've got more bite than Battersea Dogs Home] . . . you wouldn't be after a trophy girlfriend - I scrub up pretty good, but if you are looking for someone who doesn't really say much for herself and is perfectly hairsprayed, then that's not really me [I may be from Essex, but I'm not looking for an Essex Girl] . . . I generally go for someone who is essentially kind but not a pushover [I regularly give up my seat on the Tube to elderly or pregnant woman - but ask for it back after a couple of stops] . . . We're not really losing anything by getting in contact and if that sounds a bit like you and the way you live, then I'd love to hear from you [my philosophy entirely ].'

It's hardly a work of literary genius (and was littered with solecisms). But the fact that she had short hair and that her vital stats weren't particularly impressive for a London-based woman (337 views and 165 winks) compelled me to email her. It was a carefully crafted email that picked up on comments in her profile, with a cheeky edge. It was a fine piece of work (even if I do say so myself).

Yet she read the email, checked out my profile - and did nothing.

In my experience of internet dating, most blokes don't get to choose who they have email conversations with or meet. I've probably had replies from two of the 30 women I have emailed over the past three years. And I'm hardly setting my sights on the most attractive women, who have had 10,000 views and 5,000 winks. Rather, I have to sift through the emails from Russia and the winks from fortysomething women with no picture and three children. They'd reply to me - if I was in the slightest bit interested.

Now where's my road map of Northamptonshire?

No more Mr Nice Guy

It all started really well. The woman from the website (let's call her Sarah) said she was up for some banter. Music to my ears, as there is nothing that I enjoy more than some verbal sparring (West Ham winning the league might be on a par, but I'm trying to be realistic). Let battle commence. But it was soon apparent that her idea of banter was replying 'lol' to my mickey taking. And there is nothing I hate more than seemingly articulate people having nothing more imaginative to say than having to resort to text speak - you're not 15 (at least, I hope you're not). By the second night, she was coming on really heavy. 'When did you split up with your last girlfriend?', 'why did it end?' and 'do you plan to get back together?' were among a salvo of questions I had to field. All valid enquiries in the fullness of time (although if the answer to the third question is 'yes', I'm hardly likely to tell the truth), but should they be asked before she even knows my name - and thinks I live in a treehouse (it's a long story)? It then transpires that she's not enjoying my ribbing. No problems. I can do 'pleasant'. So I move on to 'how was your day?'-type questions. By the end of the evening, Sarah is saying how much she likes me when I'm 'nice'. Indeed. But if was looking for a 'nice' relationship, I'd go out with my mum. That's obviously a theoretical statement; not because my mum is with my dad and is too old for me - it's just that she's the nicest person I know. But I want spark, energy, chemistry and the wow factor - and Sarah is in danger of heading down the motherly path. And then she phones me. That's not the way it works. I am an enigmatic stranger who sends witty emails and text messages for several weeks. Then we meet up, she doesn't fancy me and I find a new victim. Part of the reason is that despite being public school educated, I sound like an extra from a Guy Ritchie movie. And having a face only a mother could love is probably another factor. So I ignore the call, making up some excuse to her. In the meantime, someone I met in February and asked out (unsuccessfully) is back on the scene. She gives great text. Every time my phone buzzes, I hope it is from her. We have arranged to meet up in a couple of weeks. And she doesn't live 100 miles away.

Chat's the way to do it

I received an email from Gemma over the weekend. I could only compare it with one that a bank manager would send a customer (if they sent personal emails, that is). Formal, brief, dull and detatched. I think would rather have received nothing at all and contented myself with thoughts that I had been sending my messages to the wrong address, while she was pining for me in San Jose. It's a bit of a new one on me to have experienced huge chemistry face to face, only to find it go pear-shaped when we start emailing. The other way round is all too familiar. As most of the women I date these days I either meet through mutual friends or websites, I have usually exchanged numerous emails before meeting in the flesh (and those that I don't connect with, I don't bother meeting). Yet it's amazing that so many women who are up for some banter in cyberspace, have the zest and personality of a rag doll when you meet them. Talking of the internet, I received an email yesterday from a woman on a dating website of which I used to be a member. As they were offering a month's membership for a fiver, I decided to sign up. The email was OK and the sender definitely worth getting to know better - even if she does live 100 miles away. We spent all last night on the site's instant messaging facility. Suddenly, an air ticket to San Jose seems an unnecessary expense.

Counting the Costa

I'd been travelling around Panama and Costa Rica for four weeks and hadn't met a woman within 10 years of my age. Everywhere I went, I was surrounded by teenage Americans - an army of Debbie Gibsons (showing my age there) with perfect smiles and gym-fit figures.

All very nice to look at, but for a bloke whose limited success with women has been based on his sense of humour, Americans' lack of appreciation for sarcasm was always going to render them out of my reach - even if they did love my estuary accent.

And then it happened. She was coming into the hostel and I gave way at a puddle to let her pass. She didn't thank me, but as she was sporting my favourite look (short, dark hair), it didn't matter.

A couple of hours later, I was coming back from a restaurant, when I saw her sitting at a bar alone. I went and sat just along from her. But she was concentrating intensely on a letter that she was writing and didn't look up once. Within 30 minutes she was gone. I berated myself for not making a move, although having not once made any eye contact, she had hardly invited an approach.

The following evening, I was lying in a hammock, when she came and sat near me. Say something clever. You can do it. If it was a bloke, you would just ask him where he was from (every traveller's opening gambit). Before I'd had a chance to make a move, she was joined by three other women. Foiled again. I returned to my book.

A couple of minutes later, I heard one of them say 'Essex'. As my home county, my ears pricked up. When the short-haired woman mentioned 'Walthamstow' (somewhere I know well), I had to join in the conversation. It turned out that one of the women, a Uruguayan, had the opportunity to study at Essex University, and was seeking advice. I asked Gemma (the short-haired woman) about the previous evening. She said she'd been so tired following a 20-mile pilgrimage the previous night, she hadn't even noticed me.

To cut a long story short, Gemma and I chatted non-stop for the next eight hours. We went for a dinner and then to a bar, only going back to the hostel when all the bars in town had closed. There wasn't a single embarrassing pause all evening or any pointless questions just to keep the conversation flowing, like on most first dates. It was just so natural.

We spent the following morning together. If anything, it was even better. The banter and chemistry were intense. I'd had never clicked with anyone to such an extent within a day of meeting them. We both worked in the media, were born 10 miles apart, loved travelling and were football nuts (although I support a far better team). She asked me whether I was always so funny (I do my best) and always so happy (that's just you bringing out the best in me).

And then she was gone, back to San Jose, where she was teaching English. She gave me her email address and promised me her postal address, so that I could send her a letter. I couldn't stop thinking about her for the rest of the day. A mutual friend said he had never seen two people hit it off so well. He said he thought we were plotting a bank job.

As I was going to be in San Jose the following night before flying back to London, I emailed Gemma asking whether she fancied meeting up. No reply. So I tried again. Nothing. I sent her a third email the following day from the airport. Yet three days later, no reply.

Perhaps I'm being a little pessimistic, but this has happened so many times over the years, I am starting to expect it. I'm going to keep trying, though - Gemma blew me away like nobody ever has. I know it's a long distance from Epping to San Jose, but, like Dionne Warwick, I do know the way.

Welcome to my world of disastrous dates and unrequited love.