Perky looks thoughtful. ‘Remind me again what your type is?’
I resist the urge to nod in the direction of her best friend’s boyfriend.
Two hours earlier…
I enter the room and immediately fall into conversation with a charming Frenchman. Ten minutes later, a girl I recognise appears at his elbow. We exchange festive greetings then, gesturing towards Charming Frenchman, I say:
‘Have you met?’
She smiles, not unkindly. ‘Yes, we’re together.’
I resist the urge to grab the nearest bag of Kettle Chips and walk away.
Three glasses of mulled wine later, I’m standing opposite Perky asking if there’s anyone – anyone – she could set me up with.
‘Remind me again what your type is?’ she says.
‘Umm… the thing is, if I describe my type, I’ll just be describing the last guy I dated.’
‘That’s fine. Obviously that’s your type.’
Yes, but as my beloved mother has pointed out on numerous occasions, it’s probably not very realistic.
‘Hmm OK,’ I say, ‘well, the most important thing is that they’re very clever. And funny – we need to have the same sense of humour.’
‘OK, what about height?’
‘Not that bothered.’
‘But you wouldn’t want someone shorter than you?’
‘I don’t really mind. The last few guys I’ve dated have been the same height as me and that’s been fine.’
‘OK but you’re quite tall.’
‘Yeah I guess.’ I think for a moment. ‘Also… I’ve got a weakness for scientists who are also interested in the arts. So, a polymath. Basically,’ I laugh, ‘I want Leonardo Da Vinci, but alive.’
And straight. And fractionally taller.
What’s Your Type?