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before you could say “Dearly Beloved.” Other women of my acquaintance have waited for years, and then got dumped the minute they tried to pin the bastard down.
    “I really don’t think we belong together,” Phillip said after we’d been together for almost three years and I had politely inquired whether my presence in his life was still required.
    “In fact,” he said very slowly, “I now realize that we’re fundamentally incompatible. So it wouldn’t be right for me to marry you. It’s a great pity. But there it is.”
    “Yes, it is a pity,” I said, as I removed my clothes from his cupboard, trying not to mess up his golfing gear. “It’s a pity it’s taken you so long to decide. It’s a pity I didn’t leave you when you admitted you’d been unfaithful. It’s a pity I believed you when you said you wanted me to stay with you forever. In fact,” I added through my tears, “it’s a pity I met you at all. You’re a good architect,” I said as I left.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    “That conservatory you did for the Frog and Firkin was brilliant.”
    “Thanks,” he said again.
    “And that loft extension in Putney was tremendous.”
    “I know,” he said.
    “But you’re useless at building relationships.”
    A few months later, I met Alex. It all seemed so promising at first, though he was terribly shy to start with. All those chaste dates—the strain was exhausting.
    “At least he’s not another pathetic womanizer,” said Lizzie, accurately, after I’d come back un-snogged from my twenty-third date. And he was so nice—and no golf! Hurrah! And no p. 29 negative comments about my clothes, either. In fact, as it turned out, he really liked my clothes. Especially my lingerie. And my evening wear. But then we all have our foibles, don’t we? Our little peccadilloes. But now look what’s happened. Curtains again. Exit boyfriend stage left. Left.
    “Don’t let them bugger you around anymore,” says Lizzie. “Get tough .” And so now I am tough. If they don’t propose within five minutes—that’s it! Goodbye! Or possibly five weeks. In exceptional circumstances, and if they have a note from their parents, five months.
    “Your pores are rather enlarged,” said the white-coated crone on the expensive unguents counter as she sat me in front of a magnifying mirror. “In fact they’re huge,” she continued. “I’m afraid it’s something that happens with age.” Oh dear. If I’d known they were that big, I could have offered Phillip the use of my face for indoor putting practice.
    I bought three tubes of pore-minimizer (£87.50) and a tiny tub of moisturizer—can someone please tell me why moisturizer always comes in such small pots?—and headed home. Then I read the ad again: Tall, Athletic, Passionate, Propertied, Sensuous Academic, thirty-six, seeks Feminine Friend to share Laughter, Love and . . . Life? Now you’re talking, I thought to myself as I dashed off a letter. Just a few brief details about myself and a not-too-out-of-date passport photo—don’t want to see the guy’s face collapse with disappointment when we meet. I signed it just “Tiffany” with my telephone number, but no address of course—just in case he turns out to be a Tall Athletic Serial Killer. Then I sealed it. As I stuck on the stamp—first-class, natch, don’t want him thinking I’m a cheapskate—the phone rang.
    “Oh hellooooo . . .” said a slightly gravelly female voice. Who the hell was this?
    “Hellooooo . . .” it said again. “Is that Tiffaneee? Tiffanneee Trott? This is Peter Fitz-Harrod.” Christ, it was a bloke.
    p. 30 “Yes,” I said, shocked. “That’s me.”
    “Ah. Well, ha ha ha ha ha! Lizzie Bohannon gave me your number. Ha ha ha ha ha! She’s told me all about you. Ha ha ha ha! You sound absolutely splendid. Would you like to meet me for a drink?”

June Continued
    p. 31 I bet Peter Fitz-Harrod’s wife left him for someone else. I don’t blame her in the