…that legions of divorcés would appear to be missing in action.

Spring, and the singleteer’s mind turns to romantic misadventure without which summer evenings wear long. Myriad opportunities suggest themselves: reheating, retasking, striking out into pastures new. Or – and here’s a thought – howsabout going in search of some newly unhitched individual? Surely there are a few of those knocking about?

As it turns out, no. A correspondent writes: “My ideal man is a divorcé in his mid-forties, couple of kids, lunatic ex-wife, house-trained, independent, grateful, while I get nipper access without actually having to spawn. And, yet, do I ever run across anything even faintly resembling this paragon? I do not.”

A chap concurs. “What I wouldn’t give for some yummy-mummy action: a fellow grown-up, biological clock sated. But I feel like one of the complainants in those ads for Australian tourism: ‘So where the bloody hell are you?’”

The Office for National Statistics reports that just under half of marriages will end in divorce. The majority of us will have found ourselves regularly attending weddings for five, ten, perhaps upwards of 30 years. Why aren’t all these lone rangers back on the market?

The answer is they’re in hiding, in therapy, or at home surrounded by apple-purée smeared Lego. “Sure,” quoth one single parent. “Let’s date – but note you’ll be embarking on a relationship with a twitchy 43-year-old, two still more twitchy pre-pubescents, their father, his mother, and a string of ever more petulant au pairs.” Life is cruel.

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