The wedding took place on a country estate. The bride's family were rich and had hired what looked like a Norman stronghold. It was summer and we were gathered on the lawn. Dinner and afternoon drinks were followed by aimless socialising. I asked lots of people what they did, and talked about how lovely the bride looked.
Rightly of wrongly, in the endless dance we call flirting, the man is often the proactive agent. So, he is far more likely to act in an unwanted manner if he miss-reads or miss-interprets the body language / situation. If every time a mislead sexual advance is rebuffed, we call it harassment, then men start to feel victimised.
While researching for my book, The Flirt Interpreter, I interviewed 100 men in four different international, Western cities. I asked them if they would like it if a woman approached them and asked them out. The answer was a resounding 'yes!' on both counts. Followed by 'as long as it's not done too aggressively'.
I slink over to the kitchen and scour the worktops for a tipple. I settle on a big bottle of Plymouth gin and glug as much as decency will allow into the nearest clean glass, before peeking around the kitchen, like a meerkat, on the search for tonic. I soon see a bottle, which is attached to the hand of God, or his nearest approximation on Earth.
After an unfortunate encounter with a young French boy, I had sworn to myself I would garner some 'me time' and step away from the fray. So I am wondering quite how I seem to have the grand total of four young men, of varying degrees of eligibility, all vying to arrive down my chimney this Christmas.