What happened when we sent LIZ JONES on a blind date - with a man who had never ... trends now

I am a disaster when it comes to men. I didn't get my first boyfriend until I was in my 30s, lost my virginity at 32 and was famously disastrously married for five years to a man 15 years my junior.

Throughout it all I harboured a crush on a man I'd met at a party in 1983 — something I wouldn't get over for 40 largely unrequited years.

To make matters worse, I went on to date The Crush on and off for a decade — he'd got in touch in 2013, by then divorced and broken, after seeing me in the newspaper — and I proposed to him on this year's Leap Day... only to retract my offer of marriage weeks later when I got cold feet, picturing him smoking, wriggling in bed and making crumbs.

For me, a relationship has always been a fantasy that never lived up to the nuts and bolts of living with a man. I'd have to wear make-up each day, get dressed, be waxed, be cheerful. It was all so exhausting.

But could Femail turn the tide and find me a blind date to change all that? I have reached a point where I feel I need support from someone who will share the load. A grown up, who won't want anything from me.

Liz, 65 

VITAL STATISTICS

Divorced, recently single. 

CURRENT ROLE

Journalist and author. 

WOULD LIKE TO MEET 

A man who is solvent, handsome and helpful.

 I have always gone for men who are inferior, not just in earnings but in status, personality, drive, ambition, looks. I have manipulated men with gifts so they like me, and I retain the power.

I think Femail might have more chance of success choosing me a man, as I readily admit the relationships I've chosen have always exhausted me and never, ever worked.

Unfortunately, arriving at the Ivy restaurant in West London, I realise the key problem when going on a date: we take ourselves along. I have deliberately kept on the borrowed pink Zara dress worn for the photoshoot, a desperate attempt to be less me by not wearing my own clothes.

As someone who has been anorexic from the age of 11, continued to starve myself into my 30s, was even sectioned, close to death, I still feel too hideous to look in a mirror, or to be naked, ever, in front of a man.

I feel sorry for my blind date, Jeremy, because even before he has opened his mouth the odds are stacked against him.

Jeremy is certainly great on paper. I had read, many times, his crib sheet emailed to me the day before: 6ft 1in, solvent, lives in North London (my spiritual home), grown-up children, well travelled, went to public school, used to play rugby, owns a dog, and is a widower.

As he greets me, I notice he isn't unattractive, with a full head of salt and pepper hair, nice build, open face. A catch for the 99 per cent of women who don't have Steve McQueen as a benchmark.

Jeremy stands as I arrive, which is a good sign. Even his posture tells me he likes to wear the trousers. I have so many insecurities, am so damaged, I find the prospect of a burly piece of manhood frightening.

I know within milliseconds he would not tolerate me keeping my top on during sex in order to hide my cosmetic surgery scars. He wouldn't accept my insane work ethic (he's about to retire), or my devotion to my dogs and horses, who always, always come first.

Within moments, he is telling me that a relationship without sex is not what he wants. 'If you don't feel that way about a guy it's never going to work... I want to be cuddled. I miss love. I'm lonely.'

Oh God, the pressure to perform, to be attractive, to have sex again...

I tell him everyone in my life has taken advantage of my largesse: siblings, friends, partners, employees. He says he doesn't want or need this at all. And despite a successful career as a marketing director, he isn't into material things. 'All I want is a home with a woman in it, no arguments, and someone to go travelling with.' (I'm thinking, 'I can't leave Mini Puppy! She's 15!')

He talks movingly about his second wife, who was a nurse. She died of ovarian cancer in 2017 when their twins were just 15, and he hasn't been in a relationship since.

He is close to his four children, and on good terms with his first wife, whom he married aged 23. They divorced when he was 30. You see? Empathetic! He's a proper grown-up.

But my nose is a little out of joint because he has no idea who I am, or what I do, which is spill my guts for money. Though he had been warned that he was going on a date with a Daily Mail journalist, I had apparently not featured on his radar.

Now, most people would think this a good thing. A clean slate. But me turning up for a date without the man knowing I was a glossy magazine editor, award-winning columnist and former war correspondent is like showing up without make-up, or designer clothes. I am naked, ordinary, judged only on what happens now.

It's a conundrum, though, as when a man has done his homework, I accuse them of being a stalker. They can't win. I don't want them to have seen my before and after facelift photos. Then there are all the confessions — the articles about being declared bankrupt, for example. Back in 2011, I admitted stealing my ex-boyfriend's sperm in a desperate attempt to conceive in my early 40s.

If a man has read my articles and books, he always assumes any reviews he himself gets in print will be glowing. This is rarely the case. He will also assure me he has a sense of humour, which is only until I criticise his car, height, conversation. Another thing I have found is that these men all believe they can 'tame' me, not understanding my job as a writer comes first.

As for Jeremy, he doesn't stop talking, and when I do manage to interrupt, he doesn't listen (the noisy restaurant doesn't help). I have told him that I'm deaf, but no questions are forthcoming, and he doesn't slow down. He has a slight lisp, too, which makes it hard for me to understand him.

I tell him I'm completing on a house purchase in the Yorkshire Dales in a few days and show him a photo — but again zero interest.

He doesn't seem to get my jokes either. Or maybe I'm not that funny. I begin to get depressed, to drift off and picture my pyjamas. A couple more teeny red flags. We go to order, and I mention I'm vegan. 'That's OK,' he says, as if I need permission. He only eats fish and vegetables due to a health issue. I meanly ask if he has seen My Octopus Teacher, a poignant documentary in which an octopus forges a friendship with a filmmaker; he hasn't.

W hen I tell him I used to be anorexic, he looks me up and down and says, 'Your body

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