Women like to do things together - go to the bathroom, try things on, drink wine, hunt. We're pack animals - always have been, always will be. When it comes to pursuing potential mates though, it's best to employ the services of just one or two focused, highly trained professionals. Daring, ruthless and equipped with X-ray vision, these individuals will build you up, knock them down and have you tête-à- tête with the man of your dreams before you can say "No Mummy's boys please." Their work is difficult, it's dangerous and it's done in the name of love - these are The Wingwomen.
We are the team riders to your Mark Cavendish, the blocker to your running back, the Girls Aloud to your Cheryl Cole. We take the hits of the poor chat up lines, the bum pinches and the appalling personal hygiene in order to secure you the prize of the night. Wingwomen never outshine their charge; but we do need to look well-groomed and as attractive as we can - after all, he's not going to pick you if we look like we've gone nineteen rounds with the ugly tree. It's about picking our good little black dress but not the little black dress, the flattering pants but not our lucky pants. We need to ensure that we nab the best spot at the venue for seeing and being seen. Tales abound in the WI (Wingwomen's Institute, that other WI is just a cover) of the operative who picked an elevated position in a rooftop terrace bar - all the better to survey the offerings, I can see what she was trying to do there - but had catastrophically forgotten to get the meteorological reports for the evening or to choose her companion's outfit. Wind. Short summer dress. Control pants. Tears. Needless to say the agent in question has now been retired from active duty.
As for our duty to select the finest male in the room for our chaste chum, this is where it gets really tricky. Months of preparatory work is required; the ideal man is an ever-changing beast after all. A few years back there was a rise in the demand for the metro man; you know the type - well groomed, didn't turn into a monosyllabic brute when the football came on. This didn't last long though - once women realised that they had to hide their GHDs and open their own jars Metro Man was discontinued. We've seen a recent resurgence in requests for the macho man - bag carrying and piggy backs are tempting....but the hygiene issue is a stumbling block - it seems simply turning his boxers inside out by Thursday is no longer acceptable in our anti-bacterial handwashed lives.
Usually though, after detailed research a picture does start to emerge, so by D-Day we are able to reject on sight - Mr. Hollister by the bar may have had the height, the skin tone and surprisingly good shoes, but his dentistry made me think I'd seen him before...on Jeremy Kyle.
If a man does manage to pass the visual test we are trained to ruthlessly rebuff those who do get to utter a pleasantry. For the record; talking about the weather, how much you earn or how your bedpost is toothpick thin from notches are all unacceptable topics. Equally if your first words make me think of Joe Pasquale on helium then you've batted your last, buddy. As for the lucky few who manage to pass all the tests (I haven't even touched on the verbal reasoning paper, the wolf whistle test and the ability to gate-hop in a manner befitting Matthew McConaughey) - they are then free to approach with care, respect and a Cosmopolitan. As is the case with all good back-up, we Wingwomen will then retreat to a safe distance to observe, drink cocktails and talk into our sleeves. Our work here is done.