One evening last summer, I found myself dining in a Chelsea restaurant with a successful businessman aged in his mid-60s (I was 56). From the moment he pulled up his chair, it was clear we were going to get on. We swapped amusing anecdotes about wearing hazmat suits to the supermarket and whether we’d ever be able to sunbathe in the Med again. Then, just as we were waiting for the main course to arrive, a group of pretty young women waltzed in and sat down at the table next to us. If I’d told him I’d won the lottery and stripped naked there and then, it wouldn’t have made a jot of difference. From the moment they unfurled their honey limbs and tilted back their glossy manes, my date was mesmerised — and not by me.