I Thought I Was Happy Single Until I Fell In Love

Single. A confirmed bachelorette. And absolutely happy with that.

A few years ago, that's how I described myself. And I meant it. Well, at least I thought I did. I was your classic 'freemale' (although the term hadn't been invented then).

I had a good job, my own flat and, having reached my 40s, had given up on the whole lurve thing.By bumping serious relationships off the agenda, I let the rope go in the whole tug-of-love game and, after years of quiet, often unexpressed yearning to settle down, it came as quite a relief.

More than that, an evening of solo sofa sprawling in front of a vintage police show with something scrummy from M&S suddenly seemed rather splendid. As did the freedom to do what I wanted, when I wanted, be that splashing out on a holiday or soaking in the bath. I had an uncluttered flat. An unencumbered life. And I began to relish it.

Not that I had always celebrated singledom so exuberantly. Far from it. But I'd started to get a bit flag-wavy on behalf of the non-married, non-mother's union when I grew tired (and not a little sad) of women being wrist-slapped for delaying pregnancy for the sake of their careers, when in reality so many of us would have happily got hitched and hatching, had suitable circumstances proved less elusive.

In my case, after a short-lived marriage had fractured and a number of long-term relationships had not worked out, I decided to go it alone, with a springier step, a lighter heart and my sights set firmly on new horizons that didn't feature a man as the focus of my happiness.

Which is why no one is more surprised than me that I have just got engaged at the age of 46. The unashamedly gooey details are that two years ago, I met Paul, by chance, at the Opera House (I'd gone out alone, as it happened) and we dated.

Within a year, we'd decided to buy a house together and recently - sick bags at the ready - we went to Venice for a birthday weekend, where he proposed. Cue music in St Mark's, a diamond ring on finger, clinkyclinky toasts with Bellinis and much general lovey-dovey, syrupy stuff. Family, friends and colleagues, many of whom have only just heard, are thrilled. Interestingly, the same reaction keeps cropping up: 'It's a nice story to give people hope.'

That has taken me aback. I'd got so used to hearing independence talked up that I didn't realise how much tales of attachment could still strike at the core of our being.

As well as this, it's prompted a couple of my single friends to say they'd love to think that one day they'll be engaged, too. We never used to speak like that. Was that because I was giving too hard a sell on my freemale status? And was I deluding myself?

Well, not completely. I still believe 'freemaling' is infinitely preferable to shoehorning yourself into the wrong relationship. Coupledom at any cost is a rubbish option. But I do remember saying to Paul when I'd just met him that I didn't really believe in love any more.

This was an untruth. To him, but more, to myself. I flinched inside when I said it. If that had been the case, why did I well up at love-conquers-all news stories and melt at a boy-gets-the-girl movie?

I think I'd just got emotionally weary, a little scarred and a lot scared. I doubted I'd find love, so I developed a tough(ish)talking, more resilient shell. I thought that helped. And in some ways, it did. It helped me gain psychological space and my confidence blossomed by embracing being alone.

What's more, once I'd pulled out into the fast lane of being a freemale, whenever I met a man with whom I might once have got involved, without any real thought as to how happy the liaison would make either of us, I was able to steer away from potential accident blackspots.

Trouble was, I got so good at evasive manoeuvres, I nearly missed out with Paul. Luckily, he helped me take that leap of faith back into the serious dating game. Looking back, maybe I overstated the positives of living solo. I spent way too much time on that sofa with Inspectors Frost and Morse. I got somewhat insular.

And although I developed new skills and hobbies, old-fashioned socialising started to seem like more of an effort. Nor did I realise how much I missed being touched or cared for in the most simple terms. Last week, when I had an awful cold, it reminded me how nice it can be just to have someone make you tea or shop for tissues.

And even if this relationship doesn't make it in the end, I still won't regret the togetherness that has already given me masses of memories and, more importantly, reminded me how to share a meal, laughter, and even the remote control.

Not that being partnered up is the only status to which we should aspire. Far from it. But neither is there anything wrong in wanting to be with someone and voicing it. Many modern women can be clear-sighted, capable and vocal at work, but rather reticent in discussing what they want from a relationship.

I remember when watching the odd Jane Austen film and having the rather amusing thought that all those weird social mores and recourse to matching-making chaperones ironically made dating look a bloody sight easier than contemporary bed-hopping, where we might rip each others clothes off in no time but be somewhat slower to bare our soul.

And yes, of course, there's more to life than a man. More to happiness than partnerships. More to self-esteem than co-existence. And why wouldn't you get on with your own life, whether or not there's a likely lad around? Besides, being a committed freemale is fantastic and liberating if that's what you really, really want.

But if it's not, best to use being freemale as the impetus to live life positively, give up on bad relationships, but not to give up on love.