Will Harris is shooting for the sky

My friends have come up with a new explanation for my unshakable single status. Apparently I am setting my standards too high. “You always do this,” says K. We are a third of the way down a bottle of wine at her little club in Soho, and ‘this’ refers to my decision to bin off yet another potential boyfriend after three dates. “You’re impossible. You meet these lovely guys, but as soon as things don’t go exactly the way you want them to, you run a mile.”

“Try and look at it from my perspective,” I say. “He wanted to do it without taking our clothes off. I mean, just lay on top of each other, fully clothed? Lovely or not, it’s a bit of a deal breaker.”

“You’re staring down the mouth of more gift horses than the Epsom Derby”

K puffs and pretends to read her menu. “Well, I won’t have you moaning about the fact you don’t have a boyfriend anymore, not when you’re staring down the mouths of more gift horses than the Epsom Derby.”

This strikes me as deeply unfair, but I wonder if there might be a kernel of truth behind what she’s saying. In the two years since my last serious relationship, there’s been a definite change in my attitude towards dating. Gone are the days of sweeping up the casualties at the edge of the dance floor; of ardent entanglings on the back seats of taxis and the inevitable fright when you open your eyes at 6am to find John Merrick sans bag, dribbling sweet nothings into your pillow.

I set my sights higher now, unapologetically so, but how high is too high? By applying such stringent criteria to my quest for love, have I effectively priced myself out of the market?

“It’s a serious problem. There is literally nobody I fancy in here,” I say to my friend B, in the strobe lit flesh pit of our local gay club. It is a few nights later, and we have hit the town with the express purpose of finding me a life partner. “Are you for real?” asks B, amazed. “There’s like 300 people down there.”

We survey the crowd, all tight trousers and T-shirts with Rihanna’s face down the front. Even in this atmosphere, with moving bodies on every side and six gin and tonics sliding down inside me, dragging my brain dangerously close to groin-level, there’s no-one who piques my interest.

What’s different, I suppose, is that I know what I want these days. Because I’m looking for someone I can share my life with, perhaps it’s no bad thing that I should refuse to compromise. The higher I set my standards, the more likely I’ll end up with a high-flyer. The only trouble being I’m now squinting up into a clear blue sky, with no idea if there’s anyone up there, and hoping I don’t get crapped on.