7 Dates In 7 Days

We asked writer and hopeless romantic Naomi Jaul to road-test a week's worth of dating options.

You'll thank me," says my editor, as she orders me to write a story that involves me dating a different man every day for a week. "And," she adds, "I want an invitation to the wedding." What have I done to deserve this? OK, so I'm something of an over-sharer around the office on the recent less-than-thrilling state of my love life, but if I'd known it would land me in dating hell, I would have kept quiet. I don't do dating (never mind weddings). A drunken party pash that turns into a relationship? Tick. A phone number exchanged at a bar? Tick. A friend who turns into more? Tick, tick, tick. But dating, with a capital D, as in several boys at the same time, has never been my bag of chips.

When I click with someone, I move from "first date" to "seriously committed" in a matter of weeks. I'm what you'd call a serial monogamist. My shortest relationship was a year, and the longest I've been single since I was 19 is four months – until now. I have now been footloose and fancy-free for 10 months. And I don't want to be – at least not forever. I miss having someone special in my life – who'll give me the end of his Cornetto and accept me for who I am. Truthfully, I could use a few good dates. So, swallowing my pride, I agree to my boss's plan. In just one week, I will meet seven different men – through seven different methods.

Date 1: Friend Set-up

In an act of utter stupidity, I'd decided to test-drive a new alcohol-free diet just days before starting this challenge. Stupid, because within five minutes of meeting Zac, I know I am going to need a drink. It isn't him – it's me. He is a tall 27-year-old property manager who is just as charming as the friend who'd set us up said he would be. I, on the other hand, ditch the "calm, confident, professional" mantra I've been repeating during the cab ride, and am totally tongue-tied when he greets me with a kiss on the cheek.

Detox out the window, I order a merlot while we wait in line for a gig. I'm also late, thanks to a last-minute outfit change (my conundrum: do guys "get" vintage? No, I decided) and a drawn out office poll on matching shoes. With my composure regained, I soon discover that not only does he love '60s-based TV drama Mad Men, swing dancing and Raymond Chandler novels, he likes vintage clothes.

OK, universe, I get it. Be myself. And so myself, I am. I am myself during the concert – gushing in an overly loud whisper about a song. And I am myself during the dinner we grab later, waffling on about work and bad TV. By the end of the night, I worry I've been a bit too much myself. But then minutes after seeing me into a taxi home, I get a text thanking me for a "fun" evening, inviting me to his birthday drinks, and a "xx" sign off. Maybe this challenge will be alright after all.

Date 2: Speed dating

I'm grilled in the office the next day and the over-sharer in me excitedly relays our common interests and the details of Zac's outfit. I wonder if perhaps I'm being a little too open? Was this how Jennifer Aniston felt? I feed the crowd a few tidbits and then focus on my second date. I'm trying Fast Impressions, a speed dating event where I will meet 12 men, spending six minutes with each, before checking a "yes" or "no" against their names on a card. I'm early, so instead of mingling awkwardly, I retreat to the bathroom to reapply my lip gloss for the 14th time. When I enter the chic cocktail lounge, I find everyone standing around self-consciously. With what feels like 100 pairs of eyes on me, I swiftly make for the bar, realising my diet is going to have to be put on hold for another night.

Fortunately, once we get started, six minutes of small talk really isn't so bad. From pilots to computer programmers, the men are as varied as the questions are the same. After the seventh gong chimes, and another man appears in front of me, it is all I can do not to sigh when asked what it is I "do". Again. Most of the guys are articulate and friendly and, at the end of the night, I deliberate between the yeses and the nos, feeling mean when I tick the "no" box for most. Was there "love at first six minutes"? No. But, minus the time frame, I'd happily have a coffee with at least three of the men I've met.

Date 3: Cooking Class

I'm a big believer that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. So when I hear about Spice Up Your Life! cooking classes for singles held by ex-bills chef Jana Scheffler, I figure I could play to my strong suit. Even if my lifelong sous chef wasn't at the class, at least I'd learn a couple of recipes to add to my repertoire.

In Jana's leafy courtyard, four women and four (decent-looking) guys gather, laughing nervously over the bruschetta. After a fortifying glass of bubbly, Jana guides us through the menu – a goat cheese and asparagus tart, homemade pasta and tiramisu. It feels more like a dinner party, and I forget I'm there to meet someone.

By the time the tarts are in the oven, the group is laughing like old friends and when the meal is ready, we sit down to enjoy the fruits of our labour. Candles flicker and wine glasses are filled. Normally, this would be my idea of heaven, but after a night of speed dating (and a really good first date on Monday) I'm not in the mood to talk to another group of strangers. I leave with a full stomach, but not a single phone number.

Date 4: Telecafe

My fourth date offers some respite. Chat line service TeleCafe might boast that "anything can happen", but I am delighted to discover that with phone dating it can all happen while I am curled up on the couch with takeaway Thai and a cuppa. After three nights out in a row, I'm relieved not to have to worry about what to wear. In the comfort of my pyjamas (fact: take-away tastes three times better when eaten in PJs), I pick up the phone and dial.

First, I set up my voicemail message. Choosing a fake name, I record two messages before deciding that whatever I say will sound cheesy. I opt for simple. "Hi, my name's Teresa, and I'm 26. This is my first time here. Let me know if you'd like to chat!" Within minutes, I hear the beeps of people leaving replies to my invitation.

Cradling the phone receiver on my shoulder and balancing the Thai on my knee, I nearly choke on my chopsticks when a Darth Vader-voiced man invites me for a chat about taboos and perversions. Delete! Next up, a fast-talking Macedonian who "loves opening car doors for females". Caller number three thinks I sound like "a sexy beast", and number four sounds way, way too old. Inundated with messages, I've never been more popular, but I'm too fascinated listening to other people's spiels to reply. Before I know it, almost an hour has passed. And Darth is back, complete with heavy breathing. No chance, Darth. I turn in for a much-needed early night.

Date 5: Elite Matchmaker

My great-grandparents met through a matchmaker in Poland. I don't know much about their union, but it produced four children. Because of that success, albeit more than 100 years ago, I have high hopes for professional matchmaker Joanne Crammond of Simply Drinks. Over the phone, she tells me her "exclusive" dating agency only takes on successful professionals who can pay the $1800 fee. She asks me all sorts of questions that help me realise that even though I consider myself open-minded when it comes to dating, I'm actually quite picky. Would I date someone with different religious views? Not likely. Obsessed with sport? Not if you paid me. Hated my music? I'd rather eat glass. I feel bad about my negativity, but confident that my one true love would not be a fan of death metal.

Within five minutes of meeting Matt* I knew he wasn't for me. He was decent looking, and given he owned his own company, I hoped he would be ambitious and worldly. Instead, he had an annoying habit of talking over me and bragging about how successful he was. Eventually, I hid in the bathroom, contemplating an "emergency" call to a friend. After regaining my composure, I returned to the table to quickly slurp my drink. At least his powers of perception were keen because after my third bathroom break in 30 minutes, he excused himself to meet a mate. Me? I hotfooted it to the birthday drinks date number one, Zac, had invited me to.

Date 6: Fit2Date

Some girls look gorgeous when they work out, all bouncy ponytails, lithe limbs, a fine sheen of moisture on their glowing cheeks. I'm not one of those girls. No, I am the puffing, beetroot-faced girl at the end of the race, the girl who loves the cool-down stretches the best, who would rather stab a fork in her eye than wear lycra. So, my dignity had to take a hike as I joined a fit2date work-out, and I felt my chances of meeting a really personal, personal trainer were slim. An hour of hardcore drills, games and resistance work in front of hot, athletic men was never going to be easy. But, like a fool, I'd stayed up until 3am the night before drinking jugs of beer with Zac and his mates. With regret as my new middle name, and a few painkillers under my belt, I'm in the park eyeing up a group who make me feel like the least fit of all.

When the trainer, Tim, mentions playing "tunnel ball", I flashback to similar humiliations at school. As I flail about, never passing the ball at the right time, always trailing behind the group, I realise today is not going to be my day. But about halfway through the session, I stop worrying about what I look like and whether I'm going to drop the medicine ball (I do), and start enjoying myself. In between gasping for air, I'm laughing and having fun. Afterwards, we go for coffee. I may not have the energy to do more than sit and sip, but it's nice to pretend I'm one of the fit people. Who knew making a fool of yourself could be so enjoyable?

Date 7: RSVP

I've always considered myself above internet dating. But when I share the details of my next challenge with friends, the success stories come thick and fast. It appears that while I was in serious-relationship land, not only had internet dating become incredibly popular, it might also be the answer to my prayers. I log onto dating website RSVP and create what I hope is a witty, alluring profile that will attract nice men and repel weirdos.

Immediately, virtual kisses, sent by interested men, flood in. It is strangely gratifying – and addictive. I find myself repeatedly checking for kiss updates, separating the potentially datable from the scary, old, unattractive, and those challenged by spelling. It's easy to be picky – and there's no chance of gauging chemistry – when you're looking at people's vital statistics on a computer screen.

But I boldly arrange a dinner with a 28-year-old teacher who's just returned from Europe. He claims to love live music and good food. At the restaurant he turns out to be tall and cute, and I am enormously relieved. We talk food, music, travel and books over our meal, and the night flies by. And the next morning, there's an email inviting me out again. I think I may just RSVP "yes"!

The Verdict

After a week of dates, I am tired, hung-over and out of first-impression dresses. I'm also wiser. I've realised just because you share an interest, it doesn't mean you'll end up shopping together for dining room chairs. Also, putting yourself in situations you loathe can actually be lots of fun. And, no matter how expensive a matchmaker is, money can't buy you love. I have two dates on the horizon, both of which I'm excited about. Even if neither of them is my Mr Right, my week of meeting men has shown me there are plenty of them still out there – and that maybe there is something in this dating lark after all.