Leila suppresses a yawn as politely as possible as the fifty-three year old banker sitting opposite her bores her with supposedly witty tales from the banking industry. He drones on and on, completely oblivious to the blank look on her face, the emptiness in her eyes and the slump of her shoulders.

The date starts off promisingly. He picks her up in a black BMW 7 series which may not be the caliber she has experienced before, but is good enough. He has taken her to Zheng He's, the Chinese restaurant at the Madinat Jumeirah and has booked an outside table that boasts of spectacular views of the Burj al Arab, illuminated in the warm, night sky. Another box is mentally ticked. She can't decipher the cut of his dark grey suit and is unsure as to whether it is designer or not, but at this stage, she doesn't really care. She may be desperate for a husband but unless he is filthy rich, she will never put up with such a selfish dinner partner who refuses to at least try and make an effort to be polite and charming. In Leila's opinion, men who aren't in the private jet league, have no right to be so mind-numbingly boring.

"Excuse me," she manages to say as soon as there is a pause in his monologue, getting up to go to the restroom. "I'll be back in just a moment."

"No problem sweetheart," he drools, staring at her plunging neckline with his beady blue eyes decorated with wrinkles. At fifty-three, he is older than most of the men she has ever dated but still far from her secret cut-off mark of fifty-nine. She narrows her eyes at him, smoothes down her beige knee-length cashmere skirt and stalks off to the restroom in relief. She can feel his eyes on her ass and she wiggles it a little bit more. After all, he isn't going to get anything else tonight so he may as well get a good look at her infamous, Lebanese trunk full of junk, as described by the ever-eloquent Fergie.

Plenty of heads turn as she saunters across the restaurant, men and women alike - the men appreciative and the women constantly looking for flaws or praying for her to stumble and reveal old, greying knickers.

Men are always watching Leila move. Her walk is graceful and seductive, her shoulders always pulled back and her head held up high. She moves as if she is on a catwalk in Milan, not a restaurant, mall or even beach in Dubai. She is not overtly beautiful; her lips are a little bit too big (too much collagen), her nose is a little bit too sharp (an over-enthusiastic cosmetic surgeon) and her eyebrows are a tad too thin (no one to blame but herself). However, her big, blonde hair (courtesy of a fabulous hair stylist), smooth skin (La Mer), double Ds (a souvenir from Beverly Hills) and firm behind (her maternal genes) more than compensate for her aesthetically-off facial features.

As soon as she is away from everyone's scrutiny, Leila whips out her mobile phone and hits speed dial number eight - her equivalent of 999.

" 'Sup shorty," Lady Luxe drawls, answering almost immediately. "It's only 10pm so he's either tried groping your ass a little too early or he's taken you for a streetside shawarma. It's not good, is it?"

"It's not!" Leila whispers, afraid that the Old Fart may be skulking around outside the door, listening, until she remembers that he isn't creative enough to think of something so adventurous and he isn't Arab either, so the chances of him stalking her are very thin.

"What's wrong?"

"Ya'ani... he's... just... so... boring!" she finally splutters, at a loss for a better adjective.

"That's it? Come on habibti, you've dated worse," Lady Luxe reminds her with a laugh. "Remember the one who tried to impress you by - "

"I remember!" Leila snaps. "But you don't understand! He's not only ridiculously boring but he's a pervert and keeps trying to stare down my blouse. I need to get out of here quickly!"

"Fine, I'll arrange something. Go back to the table and order some dessert for a change. It might sweeten you up. What's his name again?"

"Old Fart," Leila answers quickly and then hangs up. Reapplying her signature deep red Bobbi Brown lipstick and blotting her slightly greasy nose, she quickly checks for food lurking around in her bright, white teeth and heads out of the restroom with dread. Directly outside the door stands a tall local man, quite handsome, with a gleam in his small eyes.

"Marhaba," he drawls in a deep voice, slowly looking her up and down and absorbing the curve of her hips, her tiny waist and the swell of her chest.