Love at first site?

Once the preserve of geeks and perverts, internet dating is fast losing its social stigma. Casilda Grigg goes online in search of Mr Right

Once upon a time, finding love was easy. Now, with most of us working longer hours, commuting longer distances, and living alone, finding a life partner has become the needle in the proverbial haystack. We are not designed to live alone, or be alone, yet millions of us do and are.

'Overnight I've acquired more than a dozen suitors from all over the world - I've become a sort of virtual Gina Lollobrigida'

Quick to respond to this social trend, numerous websites have sprung up aimed at everyone from lonely single parents (parentsalready.com) to university graduates (ivorytowers.net).

As the subscriber list of these sites grows, the stigma once attached to this romantic last chance saloon seems to be in steep decline. ''Everyone's at it," says a BBC producer. ''At lunchtime the gossip is quite incredible. People are amazed by the horizons that open up once they get on the net."

We may be years behind New Yorkers (they've been at it for ages), but in Britain internet dating is now big and getting bigger. Sceptics might think that surfing the net for a partner is tragic, embarrassing and possibly dangerous, but most singletons, faced with shrinking social lives and overwhelming numbers of married friends, have no such qualms.

Whatever our reservations, we are on the cusp of a major social change. ''I remember that it felt a bit loserish at the time," says banker Jack Digby, 31, who met his wife on the internet two years ago. ''But now many people think the way we met is quite romantic."

Others also speak of it in glowing terms. ''Even if you don't find the love of your life, it's a good way of sharpening your instincts," says Rose Gibson, 40. ''There's a lovely feeling of spreading your net wide and it forces you to work out what you want in life and what you have to offer."

Some, though, are yet to be convinced. Divorced City stockbroker John Manderlay's first date at Vertigo, a Champagne bar in the city with 360-degree views of London, was a disaster.

''When she walked in my first impressions were fake tan, overweight and a smoker," says Manderlay, 42. ''My immediate thought was how quickly can I get out of this?"

Manderlay, who is still single one year on, says his only criteria are that women should be ''pretty and fun". He has been on so many dates that he keeps a spreadsheet of all the women he has taken out (17 and counting). Despairing of the internet, he has now signed up with a London introduction agency, Drawing Down the Moon, where the joining fee is £950.

Artist Nicky Hoberman, 39, paints a similarly bleak picture. ''Most of the men I met were incredibly narcissistic," she says. ''And you always know within seconds that it's not right. They are often very successful in worldly terms, but unable to relate to others."

Some of the emails she received still rankle. ''One barrister said: 'I don't want to meet you because you are past your biological usefulness.' "

Determined to make something of her bruising experiences, Hoberman, who was one of Charles Saatchi's Young British Artists, has decided to turn it into art. The result is Project Man, a bold tableau of portraits of all the 35 men she has met on the internet, drawn with pastel-coloured felt-tip pens on plastic (see overleaf).

''I'm pinning them up like butterflies and exposing them," she says. ''It's a feminist empowerment act."

Faced with so many conflicting stories, it's with mixed feelings that I decide to take the plunge myself. Will I be condemning myself to deadly evenings in heaving bars, trapped with unattractive men who work in IT? As a woman in my late thirties, will I be berated for my waning fertility? Or will I, like banker Jack Digby, hit the jackpot?

The first step is deciding which site to join. There are so many out there, it's hard to know where to start. I don't have any obvious hobbies that could match me with trombone players, say, or lovers of white-water rafting. But I've heard that the Jewish singles site, jdate, is a hotbed of eligible males.

Do they accept lapsed Catholics? Yes — but I should approach the site with caution. ''Most Jewish doctors and lawyers want to marry Jewish women," says a friend and one-time user. ''You'll only attract the kind looking for a quick shag with a posh blonde."

Worried that I might fall in love with someone and get dumped quicker than you can say chicken soup, I decide to sign up with the graduate website Ivory Towers. A friend has warned me that it's full of ''dreadful over-achievers who don't have a life", but I decide to plough on regardless. Two weeks later, my inbox remains almost empty.

Alas this site is confirming my worst fear - only builders fancy me.

But I do have one admirer. Pictured ''partying" in head-to-toe tweeds, Crispin is a 50-year-old trustafarian, keen on Wagner and ''spag bol", and looking for ''an attractive female version of myself".

''It is unlikely anyone left wing or vegetarian would be happy with me or my relations," he writes. I sound, he says, in one of many unanswered emails, ''worryingly perfect". I'm an editor? Funnily enough, he's writing a book. I speak French? Oh good, I could help him buy a house in France.

Before I log off, I click on the site's compatibility icon, a search mechanism that allows the computer to do the browsing for you. A profile pops up — my perfect match is ''Chris", a University of Huddersfield graduate who ''locks people up for a living" and dreams of owning a hamster or a rabbit.

Deciding to try my luck on a bigger site, I sign on with the vast online dating site match.com

. The next day, there's a flurry of emails in my inbox. Now that there are no national frontiers - Match attracts singles from all over the world - I've become a sort of virtual Gina Lollobrigida.

Overnight I've acquired more than a dozen suitors and the number is rising - fast. The talent might be almost zero, but the variety is riveting.

There's the Michigan-based male nurse who's into swinging (but looking for true love), a motorcycling maniac from Stow-on-the-Wold and an Egyptian, based in Dubai, who is hoping to meet "a calm, romantic lady who will make me happy in our family life". Reading their profiles is gripping, but from a romantic perspective it's a definite nul points.

It's time to move on — to mysinglefriend.com, which was set up by the television presenter Sarah Beeny. It is an unusual site, where friends, rather than the singletons themselves, write the profiles.

I dragoon my friend Ruth into writing a few words about me (an oddly touching experience in itself). Just because I can, I ask for a man who's good at maths, driving, map-reading, form-filling, DIY and ''other blokey stuff". Football fanatics need not apply.

The next day an email lands in my inbox. With one mouse click, up comes a profile for Simon, 34, a university-educated, self-employed consultant, who is described by his friend Liz as ''intelligent and humorous". The good news is he's over 6ft and really quite handsome.

He has decided to tackle my profile in a very factual (male) way, with a short, pithy email listing his ''blokey" credentials: ''Hmm, let's see. Maths? Well, I've got a PhD. Form filling? Er . . . OK. DIY? So far, so good. Driving? Yep (pilot's licence). Map-reading? No problem. Football? No thank you!"

My fingers fly across the keyboard. A manly man who doesn't like football? Am I dreaming?

''What kind of car do you drive? Not a Porsche I hope."

A reply comes zipping back.

''A Porsche? Moi? Oh behave. PS I drive a Maserati."

Soon we are exchanging larky emails until one day Simon takes the initiative: ''Dare I suggest a drink?"

We meet at Café Bohème in Soho (his choice). I get there uncharacteristically early and stand at the bar feeling nervous, clutching a glass of wine and trying not to down it in one gulp. The place is swarming with canoodling couples. Nervously I scan the doorway. Will he look anything like his internet photo? What on earth will we say to each other?

Bang on time, Simon pitches up and immediately clocks me at the bar. Amazingly conversation takes off straightaway. I was worried that he might be the kind of man who tells jokes, but - oh joy - he is actually witty and on my wavelength. He even manages to make his work (for a mobile phone company) sound interesting and he looks just like his photo.

We part after three rounds of drinks, kissing goodbye like old friends. The next day a text comes pinging over. Shall we do a film in a week's time? It's perfectly judged - friendly, but not too eager. A connection was definitely made, but it's too early to know whether it's anything more.

Meanwhile, I seem to be much in demand thanks to the prodigious subscriber base of match.com. Unappealing and geographically ridiculous though most of my suitors are, it's cheering to have them in such large numbers.

Scanning my inbox, I come across a friendly message from Joe, 36, who works for a hedge fund, lives in Marylebone and describes himself as a ''sporty, outdoorsy type". The problem is that I'm unnerved by his photo: thin John Major lips combined with a frightening six-pack physique.

I set about replying to his emails in a lackadaisical way until he suggests we meet. Eventually I agree on a date. He emails me with a footnote: ''Are there any other pictures you'd like to share with me in the meantime?"

There is already a photo attached to my profile. Is he a potential nutter? Friends are divided. ''Typical controlling banker," says one. ''Definitely a perv," says another. After a long delay I decide to ask for an explanation.

''Why do you want to see more pictures of me?"

A reply comes pinging back.

"Don't have to — not a problem."

Unimpressed, I decide to stonewall him. Hours later an email arrives - very apologetic. Are there some "crumbs" I could send his way?

When we do meet, he is not at all what I expected. For starters, he is a Minnesotan American, although he has lived in London for 12 years. We don't have much in common and there's no chemistry at all, but we keep conversation afloat by talking about books (we haven't read the same ones), films (we haven't seen the same ones) and holidays (we haven't been to the same places).

After a couple of drinks for which he insists on paying, I announce that I have to go — I'm meeting friends for dinner. ''Hey, I'll drop you off in my cab," he says. Without thinking, I accept.

Minutes later the taxi pulls up in front of Osteria Basilico in Notting Hill Gate. He gets out with me and pays the fare. It's a very unexpected turn of events. Wasn't he supposed to be dropping me off on his way home? I am too English to tell him to go away, he is too American to read my subtle signals.

It's one of those toecurling moments - the fear that one's secret world of internet dating might collide with real life. Eventually, mumbling something incoherent, I flee into the restaurant where my friends are waiting for me.

Only a computer could match me up with a Midwestern American who competes in triathlons. But, like so many internet lonely hearts, Joe appears to be sincere, normal and genuinely looking for someone.

Heading home afterwards through the rainy London streets, I am filled with buoyancy and hope. Whatever the outcome of my launch into this strange new world, I'm loving every minute of it.

Getting online