The clothes make the man, or so they say. But what about the woman? It doesn’t take much cop to realize that any eligible man or woman out on the town, and on the pull, is generally well advised to pay attention to his or her appearance. We all know that clothes tell people something about ourselves, but are there any outfits that will be guaranteed winners with the opposite sex? Since I am newly single, it seemed a good time to put it to the test.

Day One: Picture the scene. Dublin. March. It's Friday night and your intrepid columnist is in a fashionable watering hole trying out the half price cocktails and her Sex and the City outfit. As my top is low cut I have gone for a skirt of a respectable length and my favourite new heels. I sashay up to the bar, keeping my eyes peeled. Although I’m trying to be subtle, it’s hard to see if anyone is checking me out without actually looking at them. So it may be the outfit or it could be fact that I’m looking at the talent, but either way, I get more than a few smiles. It’s an encouraging start.
Several cocktails and a couple of hours later I meet some friends at the bar who introduce me to Mark. He’s a tall, strapping South African. He’s friendly and I’m a little tipsy, resulting in him trying to hug me, and me trying not to spill Margaritas down his shirt. Not too much later he presents himself at my table and is as charming as could be.
There’s just one problem. I can’t be sure if it’s me he’s flirting with. I am with the lovely Tara Brady whose photo graces the Movie House section of this esteemed publication. Now as you can see from the photo, she has long dark hair and full lips. What you can’t tell from the shot is that she has breasts that put my small, although perfectly formed, 32B assets to shame. He’s making nice with both of us, buys us drinks and tries to persuade us to join him at the nightclub next door. Added to that, he’s so obviously a player it’s impossible to say with any certainty whether my outfit is having any effect at all. Inconclusive.

Day Two: Not to be dissuaded by Friday night’s mixed results, I head out again on Saturday. This time I am with a friend and her boyfriend, thus ensuring – well, hopefully! – that any male attention is directed at me. Not that I’m greedy, you understand, but this is serious research and I need to reduce the amount of variables to come to conclusive answers. As it’s freezing, I’m wearing jeans. However, to compensate I have my dainty décolletage on display.
Saturday night is prime pulling time, and within half an hour I find myself in conversation with a tall, dark, although not particularly handsome stranger. Aha, success! The conversation flows but my heart is not in it. Having established that he wants to shag me very early on, I can’t be arsed dragging him – or me – back to my gaff. It’s been too easy, and I like a bit of challenge.

Day Three: Sunday afternoon I head off to a friend’s place. Today I’m not paying any particular attention to my clothes as I’m planning to gorge myself on roast chicken in an effort to get some much-needed protein after the excesses of the weekend. She’s laid on a spread. This I was expecting. She’s also laid on some interesting, eligible male company. Now this was a surprise.
When dispensing advice about men, my mother jokes that a girl should always wear her spurs in case she meets a horse. Hmmm… I wonder if she realises the riding double-entendre? Somehow I doubt it. My basic black pants and top combo was nice, but not a dress-to-impress, jaw-dropping, man-magnate show stopper. After all, I had not been expecting to meet a horse in the middle of deep suburbia. It just goes to show you, sometimes mother does know best.
It’s interesting. When I don’t care about the outcome, I can flirt like a pro. But when confronted by someone I actually fancy I get nervous, at least initially. This wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t also have a tendency to talk too much under these circumstances. Most men when confronted by a short ginger girl, dressed like a priest and talking at 100mph would make a dash for it, but this bloke was made of sterner stuff. He gave me his number.
Is there anything we can conclude from this three-day experiment? Well, maybe. Flashing the flesh is a guaranteed way to get attention, but may not always inspire the result you want. For my Friday night outing, I tried on several outfits for my male housemate to judge. Miniskirts and dresses were paraded in front of him, all of which he dismissed. Since his idea of über-sexy is bald women in combats a la Sigourney Weaver in Alien, he is probably not the best judge.
On Saturday, I chose a less obvious outfit and was much more successful. However, Sunday yielded the richest result without any undue effort clothes-wise on my behalf. Perhaps there really is no accounting for taste after all.
Sometimes being too obviously sexy may not be sexy at all. It may be intimidating, or look plain desperate. But I am still convinced that there must be at least one guaranteed, sure-fire, irresistible outfit. It’s just a matter of time until I track it down.
The experiment is still ongoing and I have enlisted a number of friends, both male and female, to help. Of course this means going out and flirting on a regular basis, but I think I’m up to the challenge. Now if I could get Mr Stokes to subsidise my clothing expenses, I’d be laughing. You see the thing is, I have a date this Friday night with Mr Sunday and I have no idea what to wear…