WHAT can you do in four minutes? Boil an egg? Watch the best bits of an entire series of Postcode Challenge? (Actually, that would only take two) .

Apply for an emergency overdraft (for shoes) via telephone banking? (No, that would take at least 10 minutes at £1 a minute).

How about finding love?

I hoped those 240 seconds would be enough when I signed up for a speed dating night at West End pub, The Lansdowne.

That's the amount of time you get for each date' before moving on to the next.

I persuaded my pal, Cat, to come too.

"There's going to be 20 men there," I told her. "It would normally take five months of Saturday nights to check out that many!"

But would I find a Rolex of a man? Or would they all turn out to be cheap fakes that stop working as soon as you get them home?

At the pub, the organiser wasted no time in barking out instructions.

"The GIRLS move around," she yelled. "The MEN stay in the same place."

"Just like real life really," I thought.

"The blokes sit on the sofa drinking beer while the women run about after them."

We got a score sheet for each speed date so we could tick Yes or No under the Would Like To See Again box.

And we were handed a list of questions, conversation starters, "to help in case you get stuck", from the banal "Who is best - Britney or Christina" to, the slightly alarming: "Where is the strangest place you've ever woken up?"

I'd be tempted to say in the state of disarray.

And just like school sports day (but without the red gym knickers and giggles) the start of each new date began with a whistle.

Phhheeeee! I was off and running.

But not for long.

Man No 1 was the wrong side of 40, from Slovakia, and had a combover like Donald Trump. But wasn't even a billionaire.

"I don't want to be singular," he said when I asked why he was there.

"And I could park my car near here." Eh?

Phhheeeee! No 2 wore a nasty leather' jacket made of genuine plastic. And he spoke for the whole date about why his last girlfriend dumped him. Something to do with his job (not his jacket).

Phhheeeee! Third time lucky? This guy had a nice Irish accent and was fairly good looking. Could he be a Rolex?

Turns out he was a scientist, and planned to change the way people think about relationships by producing a pamphlet. He pulled out a pad and showed me diagrams, lots of little scrawled, overlapping circles like you'd see in primary school maths.

Phhheeeee!

"So why you come speed dating?" quizzed the next guy, a Swede who sounded (and looked) a bit like Sven Goran Eriksson but without Ulrika's number on speed dial.

"To meet guys. And so far I wish I hadn't bothered." I replied. (I didn't really say the last bit.) He then told me sternly: "I don't watch television." Waving his hands in the air, he added: "All those soaps!"

Could have been worse. He could have said he liked Jeremy Kyle.

Phhheeeee!

No 5 worked in an restaurant. And you could tell from the lovely smell.

Phhheeeee!

No 6, Calum, simply asked for my phone number before I'd even sat down. (I learned later he'd offered to rub "Calumine lotion" into Cat's midgie bites).

As the final Phhheeeee! blew the big hand pointed straight to disappointment.

Thirteen guys had actually ticked MY box, but there wasn't a Rolex among them - and some were cheap digital Casios from the Barras. (Apart from the nice guy in the picture who was far too young for me).

But I realised something. Dating is about quality time. Not quantity. And whistles are for sheepdogs, train guards, and football referees. And I've still got time on my side.