By Deidre Dare

It appears that my relationships with men are in turmoil these days and I may need to find some alternate male companionship. They are so much in turmoil that it almost makes me long for the peace and quiet of the Most Boring Marriage on Earth (my affectionate term for my third marriage, which ended a few years ago).

Happily, since the last time I was "on the market," things have changed for me and I have exactly 378 offers for dates in my Inbox. (Thankfully none of them involve any more freaky offers of large sums of money.)

So the other day I perused the potential opportunities, in case the need arises. I am relentless with my relationships and usually stick things out, but it's good to be prepared.

I immediately nixed the idea of any more Russians. Once in a lifetime is probably a good rule to follow there. And during my romantic life, I've been through the French, the Americans, Germans, the Belgians, the Kiwis and the Australians. I wanted a change.

Maybe I should consider the Southern climes or Latin American men, I mused. For instance, my sexy Brazilian friend Marina (hereinafter "SBM") says that Brazilians are very open about sex and that the men are fucking fantastic in bed. Food for thought.

I turned my attention to those who spoke Spanish or Portuguese as their mother tongue and got the list down to 75 offers.

There was a yummy little piece of ass from Spain with the wonderful name of Antonio Navarro Campos who had sent me some informative pictures of himself. One of these showed him riding a horse (sporty and animal loving - good). Another was a close-up of his abs (a nicely-tanned six pack - very good). The last was of him playing the guitar with a moody expression (musical - excellent; moody - a bit too similar to Russians).

At any rate, Antonio, I decided would be a good back-up plan (after all, the moodiness could have been an affectation; I'm big on the benefit of the doubt). And with thoughts of riding bareback in the Spanish countryside, my hair streaming in the wind and sangria and hot paella waiting for me,

I went out into the spring Moscow night. I met some people at Shop & Bar, where a disturbing revelation that would put some kinks in my Antonio plan, awaited me.

"I think I'm over-boiling my jeans," my Russian companion said to me as we came off the dance floor. "They feel really tight tonight."

"That's funny," I agreed, "My maid has been over-boiling mine as well!"

And then it hit me like Roseanne Barr: our clothes weren't getting small - we were getting fat.

Antonio's six-pack wasn't going to like that one little bit. And his horse probably wouldn't appreciate it either.

The next morning I rushed to the scale: I had gained 5 kilograms over the Russian Winter! Then, in a panic, I rushed to find my gym card. I finally found it underneath yellowed work-out gear: it was about to expire and had cobwebs on it.

I stopped to ponder my habits over this long, dark winter and did not like what I found. I realised I had been going through a bottle of Bombay, five bottles of champagne and 15 packs of fags a week since we turned the clocks back last September! Only God knew how much pelmeni, blinis and pirozhki I'd been through.

I related all this to SBM, whose jeans, she admitted to me, were also "over-boiled."

"It doesn't happen to Russian women," she pointed out. "They have a secret to combat the winter months, but I can't figure out what it is."

"Banya?" I suggested. She shook her head.

We wondered. But then, they have a secret to walking in the snow and ice with high heels too and they're not talking, so I didn't think we were going to be let into the answers to these two Great Russian Unsolved Mysteries.

And what about my liver, I wondered later, in another panic and rushing to a mirror to check for jaundiced skin tone and eyes? What had I done to it?

I did four things:

1. I made an appointment for a liver function test.

2. I renewed my membership at World Class Fitness.

3. I sent Antonio an e-mail suggesting he might like to meet my Russian friend, Anya (you can't be "on the market" with over-boiled jeans and a failing liver, obviously).

4. I welcomed Summer Time last weekend like I would have welcomed that sangria and hot paella after that nice, long horseback ride.

xxoo, DD

■ Deidre Dare's novel "Expat" can be read online at: www.deidredare.com