In late 2002 my wife and I separated.

After 23 years of marriage it was quite an amicable separation – I wanted to leave and she threw me out.

They reckon that marriage is proof that man can mate in captivity. They must be correct. I had three kids. Three girls.

Let me tell you, it’s no fun being outnumbered by women in household. They expect you to put the toilet seat down all the time.

And when their menstruation coincides…

Anyway, my friend Ray and I packed all my stuff into a large truck and I left Wellington, New Zealand’s capital city, to return, a single man, after an absence of some 34 years, to the country town of Masterton.

In other words, I shifted from where the population mostly milked the taxpayers dry, to a district where people mostly milked cows dry. It’s much quieter in the Wairarapa. Unlike taxpayers, cows rarely complain as you milk them.

Since the ex and I had been together so long, I was a bit sad to leave. But two thirds of all marriages end in divorce and the rest end in death, so I took comfort from the fact that I got out alive.

Masterton is basically in the centre of the Wairarapa river plains, a bit off the usual tourist routes, and is 388 feet above sea level. So it is generally considered that Masterton is safe from tourists and tsunamis … and most other Japanese words.

It’s a small town with a population of about 25,000 people, several thousand pussy cats, hundreds of dogs, and the odd (sometimes very odd) parrot. Some of these parrots live on the lifestyle block on the outskirts of Masterton owned by my brother Bruce and my sister-in-law Enid.

Bruce, being the only family I have left, both my parents having died some time ago, was one of the reasons I returned to Masterton – there was someone there with almost an obligation to listen to my tales of woe. Well, to pretend to listen, anyway.

There was one problem that came with returning to Masterton. I apparently bear a remarkable resemblance to my brother and for a while we were confused with each other. Unfortunately, he isn’t a womaniser…

Many years before, Bruce had opened a very successful computer shop in Masterton. However, shortly before I arrived back in Masterton, Bruce had got sick of being exposed to the bytes of his customers and sold it to his son, Craig.

Craig seems to be doing very well. I suspect it’s because he used to be a competitive cyclist. After all, if you can pedal bicycles, it’s a mere attitude shift to pedalling computers.

For more than a decade previous to 2003 I had been writing and publishing mildly successful non-fiction books for children. I also write motorcycle riding skills books. I worked from home, which enabled me to look after the kids while my ex worked.

Consequently, I had a lot of equipment to shift. And to fit into a new flat.

But I had found a suitable flat. It was a comfortable two-bedroom dwelling in a block of five flats set on a back section on the East side of Masterton.

I had to have a two-bedroom flat. You need a room to keep the industrial guillotine in. One never keeps a guillotine in the main bedroom. Never give a woman an easy way to register her disapproval of your love-making.

It’s a comfortable flat with all the mod cons – running water (mainly condensation), a small fridge that came from the ice-age but has a lousy memory, and a toilet that has a window opening out onto the drive (so you can open the window to let every car going by gather up the smell and take it away.)

Except for a couple of spiders in odd corners of the flat, I mainly live on my own. I do get regular visits from ants. The visits are never welcome. I’m very anti ants. They compete with my sweet tooth by making an ant-line for any delicious iced cake I may leave unprotected.

The ant invasion became so bad that I got quite desperate for a solution. Then I heard that ants will never cross a chalk line. Now my flat looks like a kid’s drawing at the local play centre.

I’d like to keep an anteater but I’m not allowed pets. And the landlord keeps a close eye on things. Why, the other day he asked me: “Was that a bit of pussy I saw entering your flat the other day?”

I assured him that it wasn’t. It was just an old dog. He seemed happy to accept that.
But, seriously, I only take gorgeous women into my flat. After all, I have a reputation to uphold with Dot, the 80-year-old next door. She needs the gossip for all the elderly friends that visit her.

But with all these women visiting, I will have to install a metal detector at the front door. After all, Lorena Bobbett was a wake-up call for all of us men.

And you never know what a metal detector can reveal when women visit. It prevents those embarrassing moments at intimate times: “You didn’t tell me you had an artificial leg?!”

And with transexual Georgina Beyer being the MP for the Wairarapa, us Wairarapa country boys know that you simply can’t tell what may be artificial on a woman these days.

But enough from me right now.

This blog will look at days in the life of a datingsite bachelor. Sadly, it won't be too naughty. Hey, I may kiss and tell but when it comes to more intimate stuff I just don't like to boast!