By BAMBI SMYTH
I used to think that I’d find The One by going to a party, lock eyes with a handsome chap on the other side of the room, sparks would fly, and that would be that, followed quickly by wedding bells, a Labrador puppy and a couple of kids, all living happily behind a white picket fence.
Of course nothing like that ever eventuated, and I spent most of my 20s and 30s wandering aimlessly around parties as the supply of single men slowly dwindled to much the same numbers as honest politicians.
Just as I’d completely given up on men and vowed eternal celibacy, I went on holidays to Lombok in Indonesia, where, surprise surprise, I locked eyes with a handsome chap, sparks flew, and we ended up spending the next eight years together.
Not that it worked out beyond that, and I found myself at the ripe old age of 47, unmarried and childless, thinking I’d spend the rest of my life as a spinster plucking hairs out of my chin.
But I’m not one to take things lying down – or sitting on the shelf –so I decided I better get proactive. By now I knew no single men whatsoever in Melbourne, and besides, I’d never had that much luck dating Aussies, so I decided a trip to Europe might flush out a few likely lads. And then I thought, well, why not even further afield? Russia? Japan? Brazil? In fact, why not go for the whole alphabet? And thus the idea of Men on the Menu was born – I would travel the world looking for The One, and write a book about my adventures. Perfect.