Emmaprovement Continues...

As a rapidly ageing spinster, I've had to start facing some hard truths. Fairytales, apparently, don't always come true. There's a strong possibility that Prince Harry may not marry me. Or even father my lovechild.

I know, I know; there are other options. But I've decided not to have the hot gay couple's baby, or a turkey-basted baby on my own, or any baby at all, if I don't meet the right gentleman to pay for the nannies.

Instead, if my Prince doesn't show, I've decided to move to Borneo to raise orphan orangutans. I'll have, I hope, the occasional affair with a ruggedly rough National Geographic photographer, but, in truth, the baby orangutans will probably give me all the love I need. And, though the locals may initially be a little wary of my red hair and ghostly pale skin, I think they'll eventually just figure I'm a witch. The good kind; that cares for ginger primates.

So, future sorted. But that doesn't mean I should stop looking around for Mr Right (maybe, Just For Tonight). So when The Supper Club, the upscale dinner-dating service, sent UJ an invitation for a party, I told my single friend Samantha to get dressed up. We're going out.

That was probably my first mistake. Sam is an actress; she has that classic period drama beauty which trumps my busty, Irish barmaid appeal every time. So, in retaliation, right before I leave the house, I change into the "dangerous dress". Every girl has one. Mine - an apple green maxi dress - is pretty powerful; it's the kind of dress friends borrow for the "seal-the-deal" date. Basically, you can't be ignored in this dress.

The event is held at Chinawhite, and it's pretty packed with the guys you'd expect at this kind of event. Suits, basically. As someone who frequents fashion parties, I'm not used to parties with, well, any single, straight men. They're all looking pretty relaxed, in a City day-to-evening way: some ties are poking out of jacket pockets, some Thomas Pink shirts are haphazardly unbuttoned, some jackets are discarded. They, possibly, think this is sexy.

Sam and I take a few samples from the drinks tray, settle down in one of Chinawhite's highly uncomfortable booths and proceed to do what we do best: gossip about everyone we know, tear apart every woman in the room and occasionally point to a genetically-disadvantaged man and say: "That's your boyfriend". We also drink. Quite a bit.

Over the course of the next few hours, certain groups of men do look over at us, even inch towards us, smiling, but not one actually takes the few steps over to say hello. This, I remind you, is a singles event. Sam, I remind you, is properly, properly beautiful; and I'm showing an alarming amount of cleavage.

I'm wearing the fricken' dangerous dress, for God sake. Before you start defending these guys - Date Doctor, you especially - we both had open body posture, smiled a lot, and were sitting at a huge table. Plenty of room for you and your friends, Slugger. But not one of them approached us.

"British men are pussies," I slur at Sam, as midnight hits. Sam, who used to live in New York, bemoans those heady American days when she couldn't leave the house without getting sexually harassed. "Borneo, huh?" she says, nodding, as we're waiting in line for the coats.

Then something funny happens. The alcohol kicks in, Sam gets into a hilarious altercation with a Russian stick-figure supermodel in the ladies, the DJ plays Justin Timberlake and I drag her to the dance floor where I proceed to display just what a good lap dancer I could have been if only I'd been born to a more disadvantaged family.