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But in a still image, a selfie, I swipe past man with spaniel to men with dashing looks and piercing eyes, like outdated covers of romantic novels.
Somehow – and I know it's wrong – the man with a paunch doesn't pull me in.
It wasn't a messy ending and I think possibly it was my fault on many levels as he, at least on the surface, appeared to like or love me, warts and all.
His stuff ended up in bin bags and now, eight years on, I'm really single and wondering if Tinder or the escalators on the underground are ever going to produce anything more than a glance right or left.
Is it just me that plays 'Kiss, Hug, Marry' on the way up and down?
My caveat here is the men who send me endless messages about my being a 'MILF' (I had to look it up and, as I don't have kids, I have replaced 'mum' with 'mature') or 'their ideal older woman'.
In one sentence, younger men calling me 'sexy & older' doesn't get my HRT juices flowing.