Flirting With Disaster

I've never really been able to flirt. When I try it generally has all the impact of a margarine hammer, and attempts to be charming simply sound demented. Some people are able to unhook bra-straps purely through medium of glance, however when I have tried to give someone the eye I look like I'm having a stroke. I sometimes think I would be better employed simply gouging one out and presenting the soft gruesome marshmallow to the beauty in question in the hopes that she will at least take pity on me and keep me company in the ambulance.


I have yet to do this.


My demographic is clearly a large one as whole sections of Waterstones are devoted to date-help books, shelves populatated by row-upon-row of shiny spines that reflect the blubbing faces of the men standing before them, optimistically scouring the titles for guarantees of eternal happiness. I'm curious as to whether or not you feel the same when you buy 'Keys To The Date Lock' (copyright, me) from a bookshop with leather sofas as you do when you buy a grot-mag from your local leather-palmed newsagent/smut-peddler of choice. You are giving the same message when you hand over your debit card, "I am single and unimpressed". Of course the bookseller won't be thinking that you're now off home to pull yourself across the room by a little leaky rope. Which is probably a good thing.