‘…he’s a tosser. And did you ever meet a proper boyfriend at any of these dos?’

I blush a bit, remembering. Probably best not to tell her that the only boyfriend I did actually get out of my foray into speed dating was my cheating boyfriend pre-Sam. I don’t mention this to Sharon of course, who’s looking at me with such hope in her eyes, it would break your heart. So instead I tell her what she wants to hear, which is basically a load of lies about love. Yes, you will kiss frogs, I tell her, but dating is just a numbers game and you’ve got to crunch your way through those numbers until you find your perfect match. Who is out there waiting for you, no question. And you’re going to be so happy with him and life will be wonderful and you’ll never look back again. All complete shite of course, but she seems to buy it and half an hour later, she’s even offered me one of her tins of Bulmers while we sit companionably side-by-side at her computer, scrolling our way down through all the online dating agencies.

You’d howl at some of the website names. There’s even one called ForgetDinner.com, you can only presume for would-be couples who want to cut straight to the chase and bypass the whole first date preamble. Then there’s the online user profiles. We actually find one guy who calls himself Mr Ever Done It In The Back Of An Audi?

‘Well, I’ll give him this much,’ Sharon sniggers, ‘at least he’s upfront about what he’s after. Look at this fella here. “Married man seeks fun times with like-minded young lady. Available daytimes but not evenings or weekends.” The gobshite’s even posted up his wedding photo with the wife cut out of it. Tosspot extraordinaire.’

We both cackle at this and for a moment it flashes through my mind that I can’t remember the last time I laughed. In fact, I haven’t even smiled in so long, I can barely remember what my teeth look like. Course it could just be the Bulmers.

Then we stumble across a site called NeverTooLate ToMate.com.

‘Look at their tagline,’ I giggle, pointing at the screen. ‘It says “We delete members unfit to date.” Guerrilla dating clearly is their modus operandi.’

‘That’s what I want,’ says Sharon, taking a swig from her can. ‘A site that filters out all the messers and eejits for you. Go on, click on some of their members so we can have a good laugh at them.’

But some of the guys on this site actually seem relatively normal. Even Sharon is a bit taken aback at the lack of swingers, perverts or openly married men.

‘Ignore all the ones who didn’t bother posting a photo,’ I tell her, scrolling through profile after profile.

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s cowardly. Like going into a pub on a Friday night with a paper bag over your head. And by the way, just a tip. When a guy describes himself as “fun” that means “annoying”. Just like “cuddly” means “morbidly obese and has to be hauled around on a mini-crane”.’

‘Really?’ She’s looking at me like I’ve suddenly transformed into this wise, sage dating oracle.

‘Yeah, sure. Common knowledge. And by the way, “Enjoys pubbing and clubbing” can be loosely translated as “Would suck the alcohol out of a deodorant bottle’”.’

‘Oooh, here’s a live one,’ says Sharon, clicking on another profile. ‘Listen to this. “I may not have gone to college, but I have qualified from the University of Life.”’

We both make gagging gestures and stick our fingers down our throats together, then crease up laughing.

‘Here’s one,’ I say, taking another glug of the Bulmers, which shock, horror, is actually starting to grow on me. ‘An actor, if you don’t mind. Look, he’s done a rep season at the Old Vic and two years at the RSC.’

‘Feck that. I don’t want anyone with a prison record.’

Eventually, Sharon narrows it down to about six guys she’d like to message, or ‘wink’ at as you can do on this site. Right then. Next thing is I have to sign up for her and write a profile. So I hit the ‘Join now’ option on the computer and get the ball rolling.

‘OK,’ I say, ‘now you’re going to need a fun-sounding user name. Something that’ll catch a fella’s eye. And we need to post a photo of you too.’

‘Hang on, I’ve one on my bookcase that was taken five years ago when I had the blonde streaks and was half a stone lighter.’

‘We’ve got to write your profile too, so that means we’ve got to list all of your interests and hobbies too. Except the trick is not to give too much away either; no harm to cultivate a bit of mystery.’

‘Well,’ she says, lighting up a fag and looking a bit lost. ‘My interests are…’

‘Yup, fire away,’ I say, tapping away at the keyboard.

‘Well…watching the telly.’

‘Sharon, I can’t write that, it makes you sound like a couch potato. What else?’

A long, long pause.

‘I like…ehh…’

‘Theatre? Sports? Music?’

‘Yeeee-ah. I sometimes watch MTV, so I suppose it’s OK to put down music.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Well…’

‘Sharon! You must have interests and hobbies apart from watching MTV!’

‘I like…’ she racks her brains to think. ‘Well…food.’

Then I look over at the shelves which are groaning with her chick-flick DVD collection and her Danielle Steels and an idea comes. Half an hour and two tins of Bulmers later, we’ve posted the following profile, under the user name MOVIELOVER: ‘Home bird, loves cosy evenings in, reading, fine dining and all kinds of music, WLTM like-minded guy for friendship and maybe more.’

Not great, I know, but I had a right job getting her to delete the line, ‘Seeks Hugh Grant look-alike for fun times.’ Fun times, I patiently explained, being a well-known dating euphemism for hot, anonymous sex. What’s really great is that Sharon and I are getting on so well and this is the happiest I’ve seen her without a remote control in her hand. Come 11.30, we say our goodnights and I head back downstairs to make up my sofa bed. But, just outside the TV room door I hear Joan in mid-conversation with Maggie. Joan sounds in one of her snappy, irritable moods which is never, ever good news.

‘Sheila Nugent showed this to me at the cheese and wine reception tonight and I don’t want Jessica seeing it, so shove it somewhere that she won’t. That one has taken about a month’s supply of sedatives off me already. If she gets a hold of this, she’ll be streeling around here like some self-medicated zombie for the next fortnight.’

As soon as I can hear the lights and TV being switched off, I know the coast is clear. In I go and start searching around…but there’s nothing there, just leftover tins and an empty pizza box. Nothing out of the ordinary. Next thing, I spot a pile of newspapers beside the fire, waiting to be burned. I scramble down on my hands and knees and go through them, but there’s nothing at all. Then, in the gossip pages of today’s Evening Star,I spot my name, and instantly shove it into the ‘To be burnt’ pile. I’ve resisted all temptation to read anything about myself in the last few weeks; why start now? But then I spot a different name in the same article. Sam’s. I grab at the article, nearly ripping it in a blind panic. I know this column well; it’s written anonymously, fabulously and bitchily by someone who just calls themselves Ulysses. No one has a clue who the mysterious Ulysses actually is, or even if it’s a man or a woman. But given how poisonous the column is, I know plenty of celebs who’d gladly get a hit man after him or her.

Having just returned from a delightful spring sojourn in Marbella, who did Ulysses happen to bump into while strolling in the sunshine? Only a source close to Sam Hughes. For those of you just coming round from a coma, Sam has recently broken up with former TV presenter, Jessie Woods. (Did Ulysses dare invoke the phrase ‘has-been’?) My mole tells me that while Sam had enjoyed a delightful holiday, sadly he cut it short for ‘personal reasons’.