What do men REALLY WANT?

My daughter Rachel asks the question – and it’s a baffling one

Do you know what I really want?’ said my daughter Rachel, thoughtfully.

‘Don’t tell me – let me guess. Is it peace on earth, a stable economy with the prospect of steady growth, and a cure for cellulite?’

Rachel gave me an old-fashioned look. ‘No,’ she said. ‘What I really fancy is a chocolate crêpe with streaks of chocolate on the top, and plenty of sugar. You know, like you used to make us on Pancake Day.’

Rachel has come over for lunch, and I was thinking more of a mushroom omelette. Still, she seems to need cheering up so what could I do but rustle up a chocolate crepe like I used to make.

Not that I remember making chocolate crêpes on Pancake Day, but as the late Queen once so wisely remarked, ‘Recollections may vary.’

‘So,’ I said. ‘How are things?’

If you have a particularly good memory, possibly topped up by oily fish, you might remember that Rachel, an accountant, lived briefly with my little sister Deb, possibly because she was hoping for the glamour and excitement that is almost completely absent from Dear Towers.

At Dear Towers, our idea of glamour and excitement is watching one of those subtitled European crime dramas. You know, like Inspector Montalbano, that one where it’s always hot and sunny, and the detective spends a lot of time eating pasta dishes.

Anyway, she now lives in a flat on her own and doesn’t seem to be enjoying it. ‘Mum,’ she said on being presented with my finest homemade chocolate

‘Aunt Deb is a force of nature. I’m not sure I can match her’

crêpe. ‘How did you and Dad meet?’

The question was a surprise because I thought this momentous event was a part of family legend. You might as well ask where Adam first clapped eyes on Eve, or in which nightclub Henry VIII first asked Anne Boleyn whether she came here often.

‘It was at a party,’ I recalled. ‘He was with some friends, and for some reason they pretended to be naval officers on shore leave. Probably because one of them was wearing a white polo-neck jumper and had a beard.’

‘So Dad wasn’t in the Navy?’

‘Of course he wasn’t in the Navy.’

‘When did you find out?’

‘When he went to the toilet.’

‘He told you in the toilet?’

‘Of course he didn’t tell me in the toilet. What sort of girl did you think I was?’

No, what happened was that Tom disappeared and one of his friends – hoping, I think, to take over where Tom had left off – revealed that Tom was not in fact a naval officer but the heir to a smallish hardware store. ‘And that didn’t make a difference?’ said Rachel.

‘Not in the slightest. At least if he worked in a hardware store I’d know where he was. You couldn’t say that in the Royal Navy, could you? Tell me, why do you ask?’

Dear reader, you should now sit up and pay attention because we are about to reach the nub of the story, or possibly the crux. Either way, all this stuff about her father’s way with the ladies and chocolate pancakes has clearly been leading up to something.

‘I’m 40 years old, Mum,’ said Rachel. ‘I know how old you are.’

‘I’m 40 and I’m single.’

‘I know that too.’

‘The thing is, I don’t know how to meet suitable men any more. And I was hoping you might be able to advise me.’

Here’s a tip for any readers who find themselves in this position. The thing to avoid when a daughter puts on her serious face and asks for advice is breaking out in uncontrollable giggles.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just that, well, any advice I can offer on this subject dates back to the early Georgians. I thought single people did this sort of thing on computers now?’

‘I’ve tried that. Nine out of 10 of the men you meet online are ghastly.’

‘What about the one in 10?’

‘Married.’

Luckily, I did have one sensible suggestion. ‘Why don’t you ask your Aunt Deb,’ I said. ‘She’s managed to find somebody who runs a bookshop, just by looking in the shop window and catching a glimpse of him.’

‘Aunt Deb is a force of nature,’ said Rachel, with some accuracy. ‘I’m not sure I can match her. There’s something else too.’ I raised an eyebrow?

‘You see, Mum – I just don’t know what men want any more. Any ideas?’

‘Tell you what,’ I said after a moment’s thought.

‘How about another chocolate pancake.’