I was chatting with Mr. Ivan yesterday, and admitted how terrified I am.

I recently landed a freelance social media client, a Savile Row tailor who owns her own business. She needs someone to run her social media, and unlike my full time job it will be based almost entirely in commission. If I don’t bring in the business, I don’t get paid. Not only that, but the Savile Row tailor was impressed enough with my pitch that she put me in contact with her friend, a jewellery designer, who needs the same thing.

A big dream of mine is to look into running my own social media agency for business clients, and now it seems to have rushed up on me almost without my notice.

I said how scared I was to Ivan, and he was unbelievably kind; “You’re smart, kid. You got this.” was his response.

Naturally it moved on to some harmless flirtation, and it got me thinking about how sexy I find Ivan (yes, I still know he’s unavailable beyond flirtation and fun) but it made me realise he’s the sort of character I want to end up with.

I asked him what social media networks he was on, and like a proud man of 45 he announced none of them. It made him even more attractive. I realised, although we may be separated by a generation (possibly two) that there must be someone like him out there for me. In London. It’s not just the wealth and it;s not just the muscles and it’s not just the beard (yes, I like beards, don’t judge!). It’s also not just the fact that he doesn’t do social media. It all comes together to make a gentleman. I don’t mean that in the sense that he’s always polite (he’s not) or that he’s never crude (he is), but just in the sense of that somewhat old fashioned man who gets suited on Savile Row, and is more whisky and cigars than hashtags and regrams.

It made me realise how disappointing men of my “millennial” generation really are. The self-obsession, the vanity. Social media may have given me a career, but it an ironic twist of fate it also emancipates me from needing to justify my life with Instagram selfies. I want an old fashion man.

It’s why I fell so hard for Chris. Her was an old fashioned gent through and through, rooted to the earth in those size 11 boots he wore. Maybe a little too rough around the edges, and far too much in touch with his inner child.

But he was a man. He wasn’t wearing skinny jeans and he wasn’t (vomit) updating his Twitter with bullshit like #blessed and #ilovemyjob.

Where is he?

In an age where men and women, straight people and gay people, black and white, are all finally being viewed on the same page, you have to wonder – where are all the men?

Where are those guys who take pride in being a man. Not in the piggish, brutish way. Not in the rather awful hipster “lumbersexual” way. But in a quiet, reverent, silently protective way. The guy who will pull you back down to earth when your anxieties start to make to fly off. The guy who will be there to catch you when the creative high crashes. The one who will give you space and the one who will pull you closer.

I don’t want kids, but I do want a man to share my life with and be my new family one day soon. As my brother delighted in telling me when I turned 27 last week: “that’s dangerously close to 30”.

Perhaps the men of my generation really are all spoilt. Maybe they just want to stay single so they can have their own way all the time. I look at the men a generation or two back, and in some cases it;s like looking at a different species. I look at what’s on offer around me and I think “no thanks”. Skinny and tattooed, slathered in products for their hair, skin, moustache. I find it all so catastrophically unattractive.

Where can you find a man who’s man enough?


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