I've had a crazy weekend. Men are the strangest creatures I have ever come across. I've been single for what seems like forever, and I've tried all the tricks in the book: sexy underwear, the hottest new trim (where it counts) and nothing was working. The more I seem to prune my looks - and my undercarriage - the less men will even shoot me a glance. Or their number.

So this weekend, out of desperation, I tried out a new style – Bag Lady Glam. I left the house Friday night in red wine-stained combat pants, a smelly, armpit-whiffing, crumpled t-shirt and not a lick of eye-liner in sight and strutted my hot homeless booty to the sexiest bars in East London. And the guys were gagging for it.

I dropped in at the exuberant Lounge Lovers for a Vanilla Martini and within moments of slinging it back and ordering another, a trendy local Klaxons wannabe steamed in for a grope, so I groped back. The package wasn't all that so I got the hell out.

Next up was the Great Eastern Hotel's Champagne Bar for a few glasses of bubbly and I've never witnessed anything like it - City wankers pissed out of their skulls, all after me like a newly discovered carcass fresh for the feasting. And you know what? I let them feast, with their eyes only, and staggered off home - alone. If it takes a crappy pair of slacks and BO to bag me a man, I think I'd rather fly solo. For now, anyway...