Now I know were all the men are.
I wonder, when I brave the tube in the morning at rush hour and see them, piling on to the Central Line in their dark suits clutching their bulging briefcases and then disappear back up the escalator to be disgorged into the world where they vanish until the return journey home. And then today my former boss from the FT invited me to lunch at Morton's in Berkeley Square and there they were - a whole matching set of them like a set of un-nested Russian dolls, perched on leather stools behind folded newspapers, in pairs and foursomes, distinguishable from each other only by their ties.
We had the Morton's Salad, served in a bowl which always makes me feel like the stork pecking away at the fox's dinner party, as my former boss, the only other woman in the room, began to quiz me on my personal life.
'You've got to get back out there you know.'
'I've been out, believe me, and now I'm coming back in.'
'What do you mean you've been out - have you tried the internet?'
I nodded wishing she would just lower her voice a tad as the man at the next table, medium sized Russian doll (yellow tie) had taken out his notebook and was writing things down in very small, neat handwriting. This is the sort of thing I do when I hear really good dialogue. Okay, this wouldn't qualify as really good dialogue but I'm sure his ears were twitching like television antenae, if indeed television antenae still twitched and we hadn't all switched to cable.
'Where did you try? I hear Match.com is supposed to be very good.'
'gnnnnnnnnnnn,' I mumbled.
'What?' she snapped.
'gnnnnnnnnnn.' I mumbed again, up one notch higher.
'I can't hear you darling.'
'The Guardian.' I whispered.
'Don't be ridiculous darling, you're not going to meet anyone worthwhile on The Guardian.' What kind of man reads the Guardian? Only the wet ones. And you want someone who isn't totally stony. You should try the Telegraph darling, or the FT.'
I nodded obediently. Russian doll was still scribbling away furiously.
'I think they're really looking for thin blonde bendy women more than me,' I said apologetically.
'They do single nights here you know. I brought one of my girlfriends along and she met a ridiculously wealthy Brazilian and now they're getting married. He even has a boat!' she crowed, then looked at me speculatively before adding: 'Though she does fall into the category you mentioned...thin and blonde. Possibly bendy.'
'Well, I could get blonder?' I offered tentatively.
'You should definitely get blonder, that goes without saying. You must get blonder....' and then her voice trailed off leaving the rest to my imagination and Weight Watchers.
I popped another lettuce leaf into my mouth and chewed slowly.
The Russian doll put away his notebook and clicked his briefcase closed. I risked a quick glance in his direction but he kept his eyes firmly downcast.
'Do you want pudding?' she asked as I chased the last pine nut around the bottom of the bowl.
'No,' I answered as though she'd offered me a couple of grams of smack. Pudding, after all, would sort of defeat the the object of the Mars Bar on the bus back to work
We sipped our compensatory coffees and talked about getting me to write something - a trip up to Elgin in a flash car with a spot of salmon fishing, whisky tasting and horse-riding thrown in. 'You can do a Back to my Roots piece, darling.'
'But my roots are in a council house in West Lothian between a high security prison and a wind farm... and they're definitely not blonde.'
'Details...details...' she waved away the working class, 'Then it'll be The Scotland I never knew - it'll be marvellous.
Indeed it will. But I fear I may have to reach for the Clairol first.
