A Muslim friend of mine asked me to go to an "introductions dinner" with her. It turned out to be a kind of speed dating for single Muslim professionals.

It sounded naff, but maybe I'd find my perfect match and never have to go through the pain of mixed relationships again. And it would make my mother so happy.

I went under the guise of accompanying my friend. We took the long Tube ride to North London and found the hotel with a stuffy ballroom in which it was going to take place.

We were placed on large round tables with fanned napkins and hundreds of pieces of cutlery and it felt worryingly like I was sitting at a wedding.

Everyone was reluctant to talk at first but there was a "table guide" who prompted topics of discussion. Our guide wore a headscarf and looked about 12 years old, which got my back up a bit.

It turned out she was happily married (and not 12) and now saw it as her mission to bring like-minded Muslims together.

She started off by asking us to draw up a list of what we wished to talk about.

"You might like to talk about what you are looking for in a partner and what you require for marriage," she said.

Blimey, I was thinking along the lines of favourite films. I suggested we talk about favourite holidays.

We started off promisingly, but some of the guys hadn't done much travelling while others said things like: "I went to Egypt and found the true meaning of Islam".

There were some on the table, though, who seemed like a real laugh and we started to chat about what had brought us here.

Then, just as I was beginning to think that this was the place to find a soulmate, who shared the same religion and mother tongue to boot, a guy said something that made me want to run out screaming.

"I really expected there to be more women wearing a hijab," he said.

I expected an outraged response, but instead, the other guys started agreeing with him. The men reached an agreement that all muslim women, at one stage or other, should experience the beauty of wearing a headscarf. The women sat looking aghast.

Anyway, the whole thing came to a head when I went to take solace in the toilet. I had noticed a couple of tragic forty-somethings sitting in the hall, sticking out like sore thumbs for being well past their marriage sell-by date.

There was a bald man at one end of the room and a large, sad looking woman at the other.

I was coming out of the cubicle when I bumped into this very woman, wearing a traditional Asian green and white salwar kameez, lumbering into the toilet looking tragic.

I looked at her and then her name tag, which we all had to wear. My heart sank. She was also called Arifa, and looking at her was like looking at myself in the future.

The best part of the event - the dinner - hadn't even begun, but I turned on my heels and fled.