It has been four years since I seriously dated anybody and my friends have become rather concerned for my welfare. You know the routine; and it is a routine, of sorts, as much as doing nothing can be a routine, or at least this is what I suppose to myself. Eve though I work hard at my job, when I finish in the evening I find that I prefer to mope about my house, which is furnished with an odd assortment of old second hand stuff, breeze-block bookshelves and cabinets I stole from skips, all supporting the obsolete electrical equipment and newspaper clippings I need for my work.

The place feels stagnant somehow, and I suspect we’ve all been at this point at some time in our lives, the point where our friends are locked into long-term relationships and to go out for even a lazy drink on a summer’s afternoon or even a morning coffee on the way to work seems to be to go out with both. With the couple, with the pair. You buy into one, you get the other one free. And I mean, this is a real problem if you don’t get on with their partners. Hell, it’s enough of a problem anyway when you’re the last single person at the table, and your friends are all far more interested in what their partner did at work to day than what you did, even though both are equally as dull. Your life loses the interest it once had, or at least mine has, I think. Something in you just dies. Maybe for you it’ll be hope, or your conscience or whatever. You’ll know when it happens.

I knew that it had become even worse, lately, however, because my friends had finally started seeking me out on their own, but I quickly learned that this was only an opportunity to talk about their girlfriend, or their boyfriend, and so much the worse, to ask my advice. What present should I buy her? Do you think she still loves me? Being a shy and, I guess, reclusive sort, I found it hard to tell my friends to fuck off, and resorted to simply not going out any more, preferring to mope about the house after finishing work, watching daytime television which I had recorded throughout the day, sometimes drinking or smoking or both, until I fell asleep, usually on the worn fabric of my cheap fold-out sofa bed, a hangover from my student days, and perhaps happier times.

It is on one such evening, dipping broken toasters into red paint and throwing them idly at the wall, that a friend calls and suggests that I join him and his girlfriend for dinner tonight. They are meeting an old friend who has just moved into the city and she is very lonely. Sensing a set up, I sigh, and jot down on a small notepad, lightly flecked with blood-red paint, that this is the seventy-sixth attempt my friends have made at setting me up with some completely unsuitable girl. I am meticulous about recording these sorts of things. Sometimes I worry that I might be going mad.

“She’s very pretty and she loves artists,” my friend says, and I try to detect any note of sincerity over the tinny, crackly connection which links our two phones together, but I detect none. I have heard this line before. Besides this, I protest to him that I’m not an artist any more and I’m quite happy on my own. The former, at least, is true. I haven’t sold anything in years. My protests are, however, eventually dulled by the promises of free wine and perhaps some cocaine afterwards, which I am too poor to pay for.

Acquiescing, I accept and move to the bathroom, placing the sadly obsolescent white plastic receiver back in its cradle on my way. I shower and change quickly into a moderately respectable charcoal grey suit reserved for occasions such as this, which I hope will befit the atmosphere of the restaurant my somewhat extravagant friend has selected, although as usual I don’t wear a tie. I don’t actually own any, and have never been the type of person with the disposition to buy them. “How can one stripe of cast-off material, patterned and dyed in such a way, possibly say anything significant about your personality?” I say to myself, checking my hair in the mirror as I prepare to leave the house.

Outside I try to avoid the gaze of the serial killer next door, who smiles at me and waves a friendly “hello” before returning to his task of lifting what appears to be a body bag into the boot of his car, a battered blue Ford Orion with rust spots above the wheel arches. I smile and wave back nonchalantly, getting into my car, which is in an even worse state than my neighbour’s. I put the key into the ignition and, to my surprise, it starts first time. I drive off into the evening sunset in search of my friends’ house, where we are supposed to be meeting for an early evening drink before the meal. When I arrive they usher me into their minimalist yet obviously spectacular living room and introduce me to their friend.

She is beautiful, her red lips sparkle beneath locks of deep, flowing brunette hair and her eyes have the texture of a radiant sunbeam. I am stunned, and can say little until somehow I finally manage to choke out a little of my former profession. “Actually, I’m an art critic,” she says. “I saw your last exhibition.” After half an hour or so of earnestly trying to convince her that I wasn’t an artist any more, I finally see the futility of my exercise and give up. I sigh, knowing that my protestations are always this useless.

We end up sharing a cab back to my house, where we make auspicious love together, the music turned up loud to mask the screams coming from my neighbour’s flat next door. In the morning I usher her out of the house quietly, promising to call her later that evening. I then shower and go about my usual morning routine, dipping toasters in red paint, and throwing them at the wall. I sigh to myself. I’m too old to change.