Dear Deidre, my arms are too long.

Hold up there, love.

I've been a sporadic user of dating websites over the past 5 years. I take my time, drop by, see if there's anything a little bit different out there, maybe drop someone a line. But I largely lurk like a Victorian prostitute in Whitechapel.

I've physcially met around 8 people via websites. 3 of them I'm still in contact with. 1 of them is one of my best friends.

Two people I've REALLY liked who I met to the extent of being obsessively lustful and envisaging all manner of possibilities but then it becomes weird. Ah lust - and it's mechanics of chemical business, blood flow, touching, giggling and voodoo.

I like touching things. Not to the extent where I develop callouses from the endless friction, but, certainly erring on the 'she-touches-too-much-stuff' side. Damn me and my stupid hands, because they get me into head trouble when that happens within intimacy and I shift into a dribbling spaniel with the infinitely wagging tail.

Uncool dribbling spaniel.

And I can't play games, because I'm rubbish at them. If I wanted to play psychological manipulation, I'd have to go out with someone who I didn't like that much, and keep their interest by simply not being that interested. True love.

As a romantic, I'm destined to die broken-hearted. The melancholy that plagues the romantic is the downside of the cosy ideal. I feel sad and heavy hearted that I'm single, as it'd be nice to have fun with someone who was quite cool a bit more often, but here's the problem - the cool never have time for the uncool. Phil Cool is the exception. Tragically, Phil, 56, has no friends because he has a tendency to 'anaconda' them whilst doing an impression of a swamp creature in social settings.

Uncool anaconda-juice corroded dribbling spaniel. Wow, metaphoric.

It's time to be as honest as - someone who works in bullshit - can be. I'm going to drop the 'spin' on my dating profile. I'm going to lose the bullshit. And I'm going to be as unromantic as possible.

No of course, that'd be stupid. I'll die from choking on a hair ball having never loved again.

This is clearly another work-in-progress, but for now I need to sit on my hands and work out this Mr Tickle-sized-knot.