When a single person reaches their 40th birthday, they ought to get a letter from the Queen, just like centenarians do. The letter might congratulate the pitiable sod on making it thus far against all the odds, without strangling any friends for innocently asking “So, are you seeing anyone?” or remarking “Let’s face it, you’re not getting any younger”. Let’s face it, with the exception of Benjamin Button, nobody is getting any younger, but thanks for pointing out how particularly salient it is in my case.

Every billboard, every magazine, every acquaintance, every romantic comedy is asking me to pick a mould to pour myself into: hopeless romantic, hedonistic bachelor or desperate spinster. I have tried all three. None fit. Even George Clooney is getting married.

I have made half-hearted attempts to address my pariah status, to never again face that tilt of the head accompanied by an “awww”. A couple of years ago, I dated extensively. I found that, after an 11-year relationship, I didn’t know how.

I then joined Gaydar. Again, I did it wrong. The first message I received laconically inquired: “Cock pic?” and obligingly attached a sample from the sender. That pretty much set the tone. After a couple of months of exploring casual encounters, I found myself thinking: “Look, we’ve discussed precisely what we’re going to do for hours. We’ve exchanged pictures, videos, diagrams and scale models. Do we have to actually do it? Only, this thing about the influence of expressionism on silent cinema is about to start on BBC4.” Friends inform me that straight hook-up sites are no better.

I joined Guardian Soulmates and after a while found myself thinking: “Look, we’ve discussed this BBC4 thing about the influence of expressionism on silent cinema for days. Any chance of a shag?”

During a brief but terrifying episode, I even joined Grindr – a phone application that shows you how many gay men are around and their distance. I was Bill Paxton in Aliens: “30 feet, 20 feet, 10, five… They’re inside the room. They’re right on top of us! Game over, man, game over.” I deleted the application, returned the phone to factory settings, switched it off, burned it, then put it in the freezer.

I even went on a blind date recently. The friend who set me up (and to whom I may never speak again) believed, like an inexplicable number of straight women, that the two single gay men she knew would “get on like a house on fire” because they are both “hilarious”. I went. Don’t judge me – my situation was desperate. I had thought single was a fairly absolute situation. I hadn’t though it possible to feel “singler”. Then equal marriage legislation was passed and suddenly I felt exactly that. So I went.

“A little younger,” she had said. Any younger and the placenta would have still been attached. This has been a feature of my singlehood. The moment I clicked over 40, I magically transformed into the most desirable person for vacuous yoof. Apparently, I am a bear or a cub or an otter or a panda or a marmoset or a platypus or something – I don’t know exactly – for attractive, perky people who only serve to remind me how much older I am and with whom I have nothing in common. I told you, I am no good at this.

So I sat there and attempted to make small talk, to take a reasoned view on who is better – Pink or Gaga. I tried to find nice things to say about his Alexander McQueen manbag, a source of great pride.

After a while, and while I was considering using the flambéed dessert to set fire to my hair just to restore sensation to the head region, the conversation turned to star signs. Innocently, I asked him when his birthday was. “Fourth of December 1990,” he responded. A date is all I needed, no year was necessary. “How about you?” he retorted. “Oh, me? 30th of January.” Silence followed “January”, where a year might have been. It fell between us with a thud.

Finally, it was over. Polite goodbyes, awkward little peck, done. As I was walking home, I received the following text message: “Had gr8 time wnt 2c more of u y is a hot d8 like u sngl? LOL.” I said I was busy.

But the question, mangled as it was, stayed with me: y is a hot date like me sngl? The truth is I am at an awkward age, caught between hopeless romantic, hedonistic bachelor and desperate spinster. I am not jaded enough to compromise for someone who is not a good match, too old to enjoy mindless hedonism and not old enough to resign myself to my situation.

Until the underlying facts change, I’ll just have to be single. And, if I can shed 40 years of propaganda, I may come to feel what my mind already knows to be true: it doesn’t mean I am broken or incomplete in some way. Despite that traitor Clooney.