Julia Stephenson

Followers of dating trends know that until last year women were instructed to make 'The List' - an inventory of requirements a suitor must possess. I remember chatting to Annabel Heseltine when we were on Robert Kilroy-Silk's show to discuss the ups and downs of single life in the Nineties (the decade of 'The List'), and she confided she had put hers under a buddha in her flat and within seconds a dishy doctor as per list had appeared and whisked her into the sunset. And she wasn't even a Buddhist. I made my list and the weird Photofit man of my dreams never showed up despite my stipulating ad in the posh personals that ended 'Please send photo of house'. Shane instructs single women to ditch 'The List'. I hope women will immediately take this on board. Annabel's success was a one-off.

Keeping track of engagements, congratulations to mobile phone tycoon Charles Dunstone, who has announced his betrothal; cue much gushing that the country's most eligible bachelor is 'off the market'. Women are still indoctrinated to believe a big bank balance equals eligibility, and I'm shocked at a survey in which the majority of women believe that wealthy men make better lovers. PJ O'Rourke concurred: 'There are a number of mechanical devices which increase sexual arousal, particularly in women. Chief among these is the Mercedes-Benz 380SL convertible.' Really chaps, we're not this materialistic, honestly.

If you ask me, alpha males are losing their lustre. Now the nation's thriftier women aren't interested in flashy cars and 'it' bags. If you no longer want the baubles that the city slicker will provide, why would you put up with running his houses, enduring business dinners, philandering and the stalking fear of redundancy?

Men who hold their value in these times are builders, plumbers, ambulancemen, doctors, and AA men. I speak from experience. My innamorato is a builder who has installed wood-burning stoves, redecorated my flat and is currently installing solar panels. And why would I want a Mercedes SL whatever, when I can be driven in style in his spacious white van? Not only that, when last night our lights short-circuited, he whizzed up to the loft and fixed them. Sometimes I feel I'm living with the Milk Tray man.

Being engaged is a vastly underrated state, symbolising commitment and romance without any of the alarming obligations of marriage. We have set the date for 20 August, 2025 (churches get so booked up), so no need to start saving for a hat just yet. It's just as well we're happy to remain engaged, as weddings are getting out of control, with latest figures putting the cost of the average bash at £21,000, and guests expected to fly to nuptials in exotic locations. Meanwhile birthday blow-outs are a growing trend among singletons who, having missed out on the chance to be a bridezilla, summon hordes of chums to far-flung celebrations. Flying to these events incurs what George Monbiot calls 'love miles'. 'It is both immoral to travel there', he writes, 'because of climate change, and immoral not to, because of the offence it causes.' What to do?

I yearn to return to Hawaii where I spent happy times in my childhood. So my father has just offered us his collection of air miles as an engagement present - enough to fly to Honolulu many times over.

My chap insists we accept, reckoning it's his reward for building a new roof from recycled materials and making my flat the first carbon-neutral dwelling in Sloane Square. 'We've slashed our carbon emissions so much we'll need a holiday,' he says, inhaling the aroma of hemp bricks as he hammers away.

Never mind 'love miles', I have the dilemma of 'roof miles', for he is so taken with the desire to visit the volcanoes of the Big Island, he'll down tools leaving me roofless, unless I agree.

Julia Stephenson' s book Letting Go of the Glitz - the True Story of One Woman's Struggle to Live the Simple Life in Chelsea is published by Crown House and is out in May.