not everyone likes oysters

29, 31, 32, 32, 34, 40...

My waist sizes over 10 years? Not quite. And let's hope that last one never features again!

No, they're the ages of a mere handful of nearest and dearest to me, who find themselves single in the prime of their lives.

Not that singledom is a curse. If that were so I'd seldom leave my tomb. But few of them are single by choice, and it sucks.

These aren't flighty or frivolous men and women, lacking the ability to connect with another. 

They're attractive, educated, socially responsible and culturally savvy. Indulging in achievement and opportunity in equal measure, they reach for the stars with every lateral stretch.

They have it all. The world is their oyster! But not everyone likes oysters.

Increasingly, it seems, the plat du jour wins favour over the piece de resistance. The primped and polished keep coughing up hairballs in the wake of every contemporary caveman. (I tried to avoid reference to the bearded hipster, but I drink too much quality coffee so he was bound to pop up).

Is their success intimidating? Is their richness of life too heavy for our low-fat leanings? Or maybe the problem is choice. 

Me Tarzan. You Jane. Yes, it was so much simpler then! And I might be Tarzan but you're Jane, Jayne, Jainne and, of course, John.

There are just so many options now on the shelf. And maybe the top shelf is just too high up.