Picture the scene. I’m trying to balance precariously on the edge of a wobbly bar stool, pint of Stella in one hand and a pack of Nobby’s extra hot chilli nuts in the other.
I’m attempting to make conversation with my blind date as a group of pickled people in burlesque gear cavort around us.
I ask the geeky-looking man with the Rupert Bear yellow pullover and Dr Who scarf about his job and his hobbies.
He proceeds to tell me he’s a computer games tester and has a passion for table tennis.
I find myself trying to stifle a yawn and tell him I’m a thespian. Is that like a lesbian, he replies. I mention my horse and throw in a couple of political topics just to see if we can find some common ground. But we just don’t seem to be getting anywhere.
Eventually I end up staring into space as he gazes lustfully at a gyrating woman on a hen do trying to do some sort of lap dance around him.
This ‘date’ was set up by a well-meaning pal. They said: ‘You need some fun in your life, otherwise you’ll end up a mad cat woman on your own.’
I insisted I was quite happy to stay in alone with the felines and watch TV, but she didn’t believe me. No-one ever does.
How can someone my age be without a man and childless? But I am. Society seems to have such a blindspot when it comes to women like me.
Friends see me as a problem that needs fixing, but I’m not broken and don’t require mending,
I never set out to be on my own and have had the odd dalliance here and there. But I enjoy what I have and don’t hanker after what I don’t have.
Being single means I can come and go as I please, have the freedom to hang out with my girlfriends and watch all the rom-coms I want without any judgment from anyone other than myself.
And if I want to stuff my face with half-a-litre of Ben and Jerry’s, well then that’s my prerogative.
Also, when you’re single you don’t have to explain your decision to go to the fridge for midnight munchies, you have the whole bed to ‘starfish’ in and never have to listen to someone snore like a train.