Now that the search for a band is over it’s maybe time to widen the scope of this blog to keep the interest of its eager readers. (Are there any? Send me a hello so I don’t feel lonely.) But first, a few more farewells.

Annabel has conspicuously failed to demand to know when the would-be Pink band is getting together again, which suggests her interest was never more than half-hearted. The previously always-enthusiastic Steve has not been heard from, unsurprisingly, since preparing to join Crossover. John, as previously reported, has also disappeared from view. And whatever happened to Julien? Nigel remains a ghost, which leaves pneumonia-stricken Marc as my only extant contact from the early days of band-hunting.

But Jim’s crew assembles again tomorrow, the sun is shining and life is looking good.

So what more to write about? More about bikes, no doubt; more about photography, possibly; more about work, probably not; more about my literary ambitions, which currently rest on four-and-a-bit unpublished novels and a handful of short stories, maybe; and more about (calm down, Gail) women.

For a resort to Match.com has turned up unexpected trumps in the shape of a small number of interesting, witty and articulate women with whom I’ve been corresponding for the last few weeks. No names or other clues to identity will be revealed. I joined expecting the worst but have enjoyed the banter. Whether it will continue now I’ve finally met one of them remains to be seen.

There’s no guide to online dating etiquette. I guess that everyone starts by contacting a few likely prospects, half of which don’t respond, and being contacted by a few yourself, half of which you ignore. After a while you’ve worked out who you’re in tune with; whether your correspondence is friendly, romantic or erotic and how quickly you attempt to meet people is down to individual character. My approach was friendly and in no rush.

However, Sunday was the day when I met the woman whose name certainly won’t be revealed because Gail the Beast will already be panting with prurient curiosity. I knew from emails that she’s 46, a professional, clever and funny; what I only found out when we met was that she’s slim, attractive and has the most beautiful deep brown eyes I’ve ever seen. Gosh. We spent an enjoyable couple of hours chatting in Starbucks before she left to meet friends. Not even a handshake, never mind a kiss. A possible second meeting two days later was left open.

Next day I told one of my other correspondents, whom I’d previously arranged to meet on Friday for the first time. She took it badly, leaving me with a very uncomfortable Fatal Attraction feeling. I’d thought we were just friends: certainly no more before we actually laid eyes on each other. Call me naïve.

The second meeting was last evening, in the company of Jason Bourne. Matchgirl liked the film; I was underwhelmed. I walked her back to her car, kissed her good-night and two hours later we were still in the car park and both acting like teenagers. We’ll meet again on Saturday.

So now my Match.com profile has been removed and tonight the rest of my correspondents will be given the news...