IT TOOK a week for the pilot light to go out in my heart. But now I was ready to search the heavens for love again. Or at least 78 St Vincent Street.

You see, a work pal, Mo, told me about a new singles club launching in Glasgow.

"Singles club?" I said, dryly. "I don't think so. It'll be full of ageing lotharios in cream suits with mid-life crisis Porsches parked outside.

But I was wrong.

This wasn't any old singles club, I discovered. It's a dinner club, which is a bit like a singles club, but with smoked salmon parcel starters and no Hai Karate aftershave.

And the men were the right side of 30 and there was no sign of any 911s.

It is called Renaissance and run by Rose Marie Munnoch, who looks like Sophia Loren - but without the St Tropez tan.

She started it after her marriage ended and she wanted to make new friends.

Rose Marie didn't fancy dredging the dreary dating agencies full of battered cardboard A4 folders full of details of entirely unsuitable men.

Nor did she fancy the singles clubs where you had to wear huge badges saying: "Hello, I'm Rose Marie".

Now, I could see the pluses of checking guys out over dinner. You could see who's rude to the waiter, who demands their turnip on a side dish, and find out who's the fruitarian ("vegetables have feelings too").

Or discover who's smarmy enough to actually say, "I'll have the dover sole please, and the dark-haired waitress for dessert."

But while I like a nice sit-down nosh, I wasn't exactly licking my lips at the prospect of dining with nine (im)perfect strangers.

What if the men were older than Hugh Hefner? Or geeky? What if I actually fancy someone - and then sit there the whole night with rocket stuck between my teeth?

What if this dinner set up is too slick, too artificial, a bit of a genetically modified tomato of a night; perfectly formed on the outside, but unnaturally created.

And with yet unknown side-effects.

But it started well. The other nine diners at 78 included a dentist, a property tycoon, a teacher, an interior designer and two businessmen.

All were between 25 and 40 and looking to meet new people - and keen to avoid sticky carpet nightclubs, booming Judge Jules music and 17-year-olds in ra-ra skirts.

And they were funny.

One guy became the butt of the jokes when he confessed he'd actually gone to the wrong private dining room and sat down with a bemused group of ladies.

"I think they thought I was the entertainment," he laughed.

And I liked the Canadian guy who was funnier than a fat kid with a maple syrup jar stuck on his face.

But not all my laughs were so real. One guy talked about his ex from Grimsby and declared "What a horrific place to come from!" And everyone laughed in agreement, including me. But I was swallowing my pride at the same time, not daring to admit it's where I grew up.

And I didn't fancy any of the guys; the dentist was too young and the property developer showed off by talking about million-pound studios he'd looked round in Monte Carlo.

One young bloke was OK, but when he said he smoked that was the kiss of death to the possibility of a kiss.

And I have to say a dinner club evening doesn't come cheap. It's the lobster of nights out with a £290 joining fee and £150 annual renewal. Plus the dinners can cost up to £80. However, I reckon it's worth it.

Although I didn't fancy a second helping of anyone, I felt full to bursting with fun.

And I learned something from the experience; if love is a rare Beluga caviar, then friendship is spaghetti bolognese - less expensive, but just as satisfying.

And it will keep you going until the real dish of the day arrives.

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