Why can't I get some gorgeous he-males?(Features)

Byline: By Wales on Sunday

Let me recap: born, bred and bankrupted in the Valleys, as you may have gathered, my life is more like No Sex and the Valleys than Sex and the City.

My friends and I are the epitome of new age feminism, yet our lives revolve around the suffering that men cause or the suffering caused from trying to find 'The One'.

Secondly, another constant issue for us is weight. Combine the two and prescriptions for Prozac pile sky-high.

Last week saw my first-ever lonely hearts advert. It was a spiritually bankrupt final attempt to see if there is one decent man on the planet, one who would be interested in personality rather than protruding hipbones.

Adamant that my ad would generate interest from the 'right type', I sat in front of my computer screen, equipped with Pro-plus, Diet Coke, Sovereign Lights and strawberry cheesecake, and took a deep breath in anticipation of being inundated with responses. By 8pm, I'd ran out of supplies. As I strolled down to the Spar, it crossed my mind that Valleys boys may not know how to e-mail... what was to become of my grand plan now?

I sat for hours waiting for a new message to appear in my newly set-up couldbefat@hotmail.com e-mail account.

It wasn't until 15 hours later at 11am that I received my first response.

From what I can glean, my first love interest (a G. Munt) is 37 years old, 6ft 3in, of slight build, has green eyes and brown hair. He works as a data analyst for a leading hair removal brand. His interests and hobbies include cross-stitch, internet, walking and collecting Princess Diana memorabilia. He owns a VW estate, has a criminal record and declared he couldn't wait to get his hands on my hard drive.

The profile of my prospective suitor puts vivid imagery in my mind - he's likely to have eyebrows set ever so slightly too far apart and a receding hairline; he'd never blink for fear of losing eye contact; smooth chest on full display, filed nails and plucked nasal hair being finishing touches. The sort of person who'd have a criminal conviction with the words 'stalk' and 'er' in the folder. No thanks.

Over the next few days I received some more e-mails, all, unfortunately, equally uninspiring:

nE-mail 2: Requested that I watch this week's Big Brother, so when we meet we'd have something to kick-start conversation. Enough said.

nE-mail 3: Described me as buteifull (sic). I am either being sent mail from: a) another stupid man, b) someone who works in any regional branch of McDonald's, or c) an 11-year-old.

nE-mail 4: Came from my mother. 'You're not fat Jen, don't be ridiculous (we'll always love you no matter what) - Love Mam'.

By Thursday, it was evident that this was my lot. I re-visited e-mail 3. After all, his bad spelling could be the result of going to a Welsh school - and at least he complemented me.

Reluctantly, I bashed out a response... 'Meet me at 8pm at the White Lion. I'll be the one in the red dress with a carnation' (isn't this what they do??).

I sat staring at the computer and sighed. Was this really what my life had come to? Blind dates with lonely hearts in search of a fat girl? I closed my eyes and clicked 'send'. Now all I had to do was buy that dress!

To be continued...