Some time ago, I drew up a checklist of the man who would be my ideal match and it was quite comprehensive. He would be single with few ties, intelligent, creative in some way, interested in history, travel, media, walking, books and/or film and finally, not right wing. As luck would have it I met and dated a divorced man with no children who had in the past been involved with CND. Moreover he was socialist in outlook. He was interested in photography, having a “serious” camera, and had, at one stage, filmed documentaries about boats and shipyards. He was a history buff and liked to explore castles and read history tomes for pleasure. He painted, sculpted and liked to hillwalk in his spare time. He did look as if he was about to break into a sea shanty at any moment, especially as he had paintings and photographs all over his walls of boats from various angles. His bathroom was decorated like a beach hut and he obviously really meant that he would like to retire to a house with a sea view – something I’ve often said myself. He ticked a lot of boxes that I had artificially drawn up before we met.
Ideal, no doubt.
And yet, and yet…
When I kissed him, I felt nothing. Whoever I’m looking for, it wasn’t him.