But there’s a lot of catching up to do, as I discover when I sign up for a dozen sites, apps and singles nights. A couple of hours beforehand I have a pep talk with dating expert Hayley Quinn, who warns me that coffee dates often seem like job interviews. Not a single one of my marathon dates contacts me for a second meet-up. I head to a Mayfair nightclub for speed dating (originaldating.com), counting each four-minute contact as 0.25 of a date.
(Related: a lunch date with the most exciting woman in food - Gizzi Erskine) I spend Sunday evening with F, a petite Spanish peasant from Lovestruck.
She’s furious about the amount of tax she pays in the UK; I pick up the bill for her three large Merlots and head home alone.
A Tinder girl cancels, as I’ve failed to “banter” on Whats App.
Tinder hook-ups are reportedly "next-level" in the athlete's village in Rio, with matches in the Olympic village up 129%. I meet a former colleague, C, who I’ve been lusting after for years. It’s a pretty good pie, too, but she doesn’t go over.
Considering they were given 42 condoms EACH to ward off the threat of Zika, it's no surprise that so many medal-winners are off, erm, "celebrating". I used to, and I think at times I might even have enjoyed it. S from Tinder is smiley and chatty with faultless social skills. Wine with M from Lovestruck – the first date I’ve really enjoyed, and the first woman I found attractive just by looking at her photo.