I'VE noticed as I have crept (reluctantly) into my late 20s that my single mates have started complaining about how difficult it is to meet people.

Now, if we were talking deranged, drunken bearded people who dribble when they talk, then I would merely suggest a trip on a night bus wearing anything more feminine that a boiler suit. But of course "people", in this sense, is a euphemism for "witty, attractive individuals who I could happily spend the rest of my life with".

Clearly this is one step off mission impossible as, apparently, every available singleton of between 25 and 35 who isn't married, engaged, committed or psychopathic is gay. Or a priest. Or an undertaker. (Curiously, single friends of both sexes tell me this, and since I don't know any psychopathic homosexual funeral directors, you can see this doesn't really add up.)

But I can see the difficulty. It was a lot easier for our parents' generation, mainly because if you hadn't received a decent offer by the age of 26 you would steel your resolve, accept the hand of greasy Gordon from down the chippy and console yourself with the thought of free cod and chips once a fortnight and all the scotch eggs you can eat.

These days women are staying single for longer and, should they come across a potential partner, are holding him up to impossible standards set by too many movies starring Meg Ryan, resulting in exchanges such as "Well he's good looking, kind, funny and solvent -- but he's got this funny mole."

Still, there are always the personal ads for a more direct approach. Or even internet dating, if you are willing to risk the fact that your 6ft, blond, surfing Adonis from Sydney is actually a balding, 50-year-old carpet fitter from Wolverhampton.

Or how about speed dating? Apparently a phenomenon in the US (where else?), singles gather in a bar with a scorecard and pair off, with four minutes to get to know each other before it's time to move on to the next "date". While this at least cuts out the chance of embarrassing silences on your date, you have to be careful not to witter nervously during those four minutes or else you find yourself immortalized on some poor bloke's pad as "the woman who collects bobble hats".

And if all that sounds just too much like hard work, then why not look a little closer to home. No, not Mr Farquar at No 57 (you need a man with his own teeth), I'm talking about friends. Or rather friends of friends (although don't rule mates out -- two of my best pals have just got together and you've not seen anything so truly meant to be since Scott and Charlene walked down the aisle to Angry Anderson's Suddenly).

However, this aside, surely your best bet for a promising date is a friend of a friend? So, from now on, keep your eyes peeled at those birthday celebrations, weddings, anniversaries and work dos and then make your move.

This way, 30 years later when you are divorced and arguing over joint custody of the budgerigar, at least you've got someone to blame.