I'm starting to believe that my life has been set up as a case study by the devil and his minions as their personal human joke, at which to laugh at.

After using my essential guide to 'The Rule of Selection: How to Date before Making That Decision' — a book I wrote in my head last week — I thought I had this down pat. However, like all universal selection, something went awry along the way.

I'd imagine that is goes something like this for other people: You secure a few dates in the timeframe of say, two months. Along the way, Date Candidate Number One perhaps let slip that he's into dressing in high heels after a few beers, and maybe after a few weeks Candidate Two reveals that he is a neurotic sex addict with a penchant for 'fourgies' with Swedish lesbians. Maybe Candidate Three is making a crystal meth plant in his garage, and therefore Candidate Four wins highly-acclaimed exclusivity to your heart. And you live happily ever after, only because he is the most normal out of the bunch.

Survival of the fittest

It's survival of the fittest, and frankly, it was meant to be a plan so cunning, you could brush your teeth with it. It worked for Janice Dickinson — she really wrote a book about this selective format of dating — and she'll bite your head off if you so much as move. So surely it would easy for some as likeable as me?

Now, granted that I currently have flings far flung. Most ordinary women date men that actually live in their place of lieu. Desperately seeking something a little more exotic than your average born-and-bred Joburger, I inconclusively and subliminally started looking beyond our borders of ZARdom. These men also slot into my regimen rather nicely because they're also far away. Less intensity; less room for error.

In light of trying new dating patterns — keeping these men at a literal distance, while getting to know many at the same time — it was working out very peachey for me, and for around 24 hours, I truly believed I'd cracked the code to 'No More Broken Hearts'.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't

Perhaps I should've used this strategy from the day I started sprouting boobies and simultaneously started getting the hots in the loin area for boys. This had to be the right process.

The truth? I'm damned if I do and I'm damned if I don't.

I am booked to go to a business summit in Luxembourg to talk opportunities and the economic crisis. Luxembourg is nicely wedged in the centre of Europe, which means if I play my cards correctly, I'd be able to see my Euro-flings at my disposal and on my terms on the very same trip.

It was all falling into place so beautifully, I believed Karma herself — if Karma can be gentrified — was repaying me for all the relationship strife I'd previously put myself through by latching onto one exclusive relationship too quickly.

The Spaniard, who also works in banking, or should I say bonking, was also going to the business summit, it turned out. Wow! As sure as men are born with prostate glands, and as sure as Barry White's Greatest Hits have been the catalyst for many a sexual liaison, this was obviously meant to be.

Except that the other fling is also going to be Luxembourg as well. Out of all the random cities one gets to fanny about in Europe, all my flings are descending onto Luxembourg like a plague of horny man-teens. Because the universe orchestrated it this way. For its own Schadenfreude-type pleasure.

This means either I have to juggle each one, or more honestly decide quickly with whom I will choose to exclusively spend my time. None of these flings have long-term potential; it's more a practical examination in finding myself the right kind of man for the moment.

So who to choose?

Well as the universe put these men in the same place at the same time, so then I'm relying on the universe to make the decision for me. Sometimes problems are best solved when they are ignored. And this untimely screw-up is obviously out of my, clearly very incapable, hands.