I’m going to dust down the cobwebs and shake my booty at the Mansion tonight. This supposedly super-chic restaurant set in a small excuse for a mansion and overlooking a  park famed for flashers and a surplus of dog plop is doing so badly for punters on account of its rather tasteless decor that its manager leases it out to club promoters once a month. I tried eating here once but the smell of the fish glue they used to stick the orange rubber flooring down kind of overpowered the sushi. I later heard from my DJ friend Salamander, that the guy who bought this place is into gimp attire and sado-masochism. OK so this is one place I won’t be scouting for work. As open-minded as I think I am I can’t work for a guy who walks around on all fours attached to a lead for fun. Still, the club nights are wicked and it’s the only place close enough to walk home from after getting my dance fix.

Tonight I have gone for chic rather than foxy. I am wearing my favourite part-suede part-patent purple and blue Miu Mius, a midnight blue Vanessa Bruno dress and the hair is up and back and styled with To Sho bands in an Audrey Hepburn stylee do. “You told me to dress sexy,” says my Polish au pair friend Kasia (Cancer), “You look so smaaaarrt.” If by smart she means I don’t look kinda slutty which Kasia has gone for, her low cut leopard print dress flashing a pair of boobs which are so tightly pushed together she looks like she has a bum on her chest, then she’s right. Our idea of sexy is clearly very different but, kerching, mine seems to be pulling in the boys.

I get us a couple of JD and Cokes. “The man at the end of the bar would like to buy you a bottle of champagne,” says the  latex-loving owner who must be short-staffed since he is working as barman tonight.  I look to my left and spot a 5 foot troll of a man dressed in a kind of Miami Vice get up with the sleeves rolled up on his pastel pinstripe jacket and long ginger hair tied back in to a limp pony tail. He starts waving and gesturing for me to come over. He clearly doesn’t recognize me. “Thanks but I’m sorted,” I shout to the person I last saw picking up his daughter from Nancy’s school. Good God, I talk to his gorgeous wife all the time. I’ll never be able to look her in the face again.

And just as tonight is starting to unravel and look like the biggest mistake since Gordon Brown  I spy the most drop dead gorgeous man walking into the room. The people dancing close to me seem to go into slow motion as I turn, he smiles, I flash a smile with a Princess Diana duck of the eyes back and Mr 6ft tall, dark and handsome sidles over.

“Hi, you here with friends?” I say

“Yes I am, madame, you having fun?”

He has a lovely accent, the bluest eyes and dark, dark spiky hair.

“Where are you from? “ I ask, unable to decipher the accent.

“Sweden by way of Italy.”

I’m in fucking heaven!!

“I’m Joachim. What’s your name.”

“Abi”

“Abeeeeee, I’m in fucking heaven. Come and meet my friend Jan,”

 We walk towards an equally gorgeous but blond man I take to be Swedish too. The next twenty minutes is taken up with two guys fighting over me by trying to outcharm me and outwit each other. Who cares if this is possibly some kind of Swedish line-up for a threesome? I’m loving it. Kasia has gone home with the gimp owner/barman and I am here with two guys who look like they just dropped straight off the catwalk. Looks like I am following the Dalai Llama’s philosophy to the letter but when did Happy feel this Good?

After taking advice from people I perhaps shouldn’t call my friends, “Cute, clever, creative, careful, I might make you smile,” is crowned dating tag du jour and uploaded with a pic of me dancing and looking elated/drunk. I half expect my wink box to be as empty as the visitors reception in a Swine Flu ward but Holy Moly, Mrs T is pulling in the punters. I am not quite sure how this particular dating agency, voted ‘Best on the Web’, operates but, having stated a preference for guys within 50 miles, I’ve pulled in Melbourne, Tokyo and Alaska thus far. I send 3 ‘Not on your Nelly’ emails and then feel a mild pang of guilt.  Checking your inbox every morning and getting rejection after rejection must be sickening. It sets off a flashback to my modelling days:

“Your tits are too small,”

“Tits are too big,”

“You could do with losing a few pounds,”

 “You’re a bit pasty for Mario,”

“Your feet are too big for sample-sized shoes,”

“You will be swamped by the catwalk, dwulling.”

“But Kate Moss is smaller than me,” I say in my defence

“No offence but Kate’s got that special ‘thing’ honey. You are simply NOT in her league.”

All I can say is after 4 yrs of testing and making little headway in the puke and pose industry – highlights being an Armand Basi advertorial, a Tampax TV commercial and meeting my lovely friend V – it took another 4 years of therapy to get over the excruciating experience. Still, most of my friends from way-back-when became Coke addicts or bulimics or both, so I suppose I got off rather lightly.

Back to dating.

My turn to send a few winks down the line. I scroll through the closest options. David (Aquarius) from Oxford looks a bit of a dish and he’s 40, which would have been nice were he not looking for a lady between 20 to 30. Sam (Cancer, 41) from Tooting likes children and pets. He’s losing his hair which is why he’s gone for the number 1 but he’s got George Clooney’s light-up-a-room smile. Ladies no older than 28. Give me a break? I flick through man after man and find that most 30 to 40-something guys here in Blighty wouldn’t dream of dating someone their own age. What if Elle Macpherson (Aries, 45) slumped into your passenger seat, Sam? Tell me you’d kick Halle Berry (Leo, 43) out of the hot tub, David?

Why are people in this country so obsessed with youth? I personally think I have never looked better at the geriatric age of thirty one. I have developed a wicked knowing look and have the kind of super-charged sex drive that should be a red rag to a bull of a man. I know women 10 years younger than me who make me look like Miley Cyrus to their Billy Ray. Try this quick experiment: skim the pages of fashion magazines and then jump to pictures of the happier of the 30 plus Heat magazine headliners – espescially those who have had babies – now look back at those 17 year olds pretending to be 25 year olds in Vogue  fashion shoots. Try and tell me you don’t see a brighter light from the laydeez who have been around longer.

I go back to my dating site and check out the female of the species for research purposes. Most of them seem happy to date older men. So what’s your problem, guys?

Before dating exhaustion sets in I switch to Twitter to see what bonkers, irrelevant things are going on in the world:

OHHTDL  Quote of the Day “If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito.” ~His Holiness, the Dalai Lama .

Britney’s Vagina  “May dress up in camel toe today.”

LoulouWitch  “Aren’t glue sticks supposed to be sticky? I’m right aren’t I? I mean they have the words glue and stick in their name.”

Yayyy, I got mail:

@crazyhorseholl  “How r u babe. Cosying up with kids and Chinchillas or busy booking babysitters?”

And Male:

@christian  “How’s newly single life going Ms T? Thinking of you. Letz hook up soon.”

Well there’s a bloke who’s not scared of older women. At 22 Christian (Leo) is almost a decade away from me and yet rather than flinch when I mentioned my age, he had that look of “Whooppadeeedoodahhhh, a lady with experience, I can’t wait to see where this is heading” . He’s from New Zealand so maybe that explains it and, while I didn’t exactly see him dance like a Rugby All Black when I sashayed to the taxi rank instead of his flat, we are still pretty good friends.

You could say he’s part of my new collection. I am gathering a tribe around me. I now have an admirer who mends bicycles for a living (great when you have kids), I have a web expert, a plumber, a builder and a car mechanic on speed dial. They call me for lady advice. I call them for expertise. It’s not like Mr Was Right will come running at the slightest problem any more so I need my Yellow Page Boys. 

Alright, so I make it sound glib, but discounting G, I do value these male companions and like their different points of view as much as hunker after their trades. I have learned to accept men’s wonderful differences since producing a 4 year old male of my own. Sid is a great conversationalist and the cutest thing since Pemba the baby red panda. Except when he tries to tongue me when we kiss good night. Or when he pulls down his pants, prises his bottom cheeks apart and gives people in restaurants his best kidney mooner.