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Tired of poor returns from traditional methods of luring the opposite sex, singletons in Britain are turning to a quick-fix solution: speed dating. Lining up at tables in bars and clubs across the country, single men and women come on to one another for precisely three minutes before a bell sends them shuffling over to the next table. Salsa dancing and games (tarot cards, anyone?) are also on offer. Daters mark their card if they find someone interesting, and if the attraction is mutual the pair can swap e-mails later. For those who don't connect, three minutes is (relatively) painless. Over two nights last week, 3,000 single people gathered at London's Vinopolis wine museum for what can only be considered the speed dating World Cup. Time dispatched two intrepid correspondents to the desiring line. Their reports:

HIS SIDE: My first date — let's call her "Brownie" — spends our entire 180-second relationship reminiscing about her failed camp fire girl youth. The 26-year-old speaks plaintively about the stiff breeze long ago that blew away her one shot as the camp-fire lighter. She doesn't light my fire, either.

Getting nowhere (fast, of course), I do what every self-disrespecting male would do. I lie. I call myself a rich lawyer and sit down with "Sugarmuffin," the prettiest of my seven dates. Sadly, her own job as a legal secretary throws up too many unanswerable questions about mine. Saved by the bell, I shuffle off and become a postman for a final three minutes with "Wild Cat." She didn't deliver, either.

Deciding that speed dating is nothing more than a novel way to offload three minutes of verbal garbage, I move on to salsa dancing. But after a succession of mute partners with a phobia for physical contact, only a gray-haired fiftysomething called Katrina manages to loosen my collar a little.

Katrina's friskiness doesn't make up for the fact that I have not received a single calling card. So I consult in-house flirting guru Peta Heskell. "Some men relentlessly assault themselves with negative feelings," she tells me. "The key is getting rid of the voices in your head."

Final score: zero cards, two e-mail addresses — and those voices in my head ringing even louder. For this speed dater, what's billed as a new hope for singles is mostly hype — amusing, certainly, but unlikely to match you with anyone who can think straight, let alone flirt.

HER SIDE: Apart from bartenders and prison wardens, few women get the chance to speak to seven different men in 21 minutes. So speed dating appeals because it promises variety and abundance. And because some dates should last only three minutes. The women stay seated while the men rotate, making the whole process feel like a hurried job interview. Except with more monotony. Where are you from? What do you do? But one question remained unasked, the question on everyone's mind: Why are you still single? Or put another way: What the hell's wrong with you?

One guy speaks only to my cleavage. Another mistakes the event for speed ranting and spends the interval complaining about his job. Three minutes with a man who smells like dirt and sulphur is an eternity. Of the seven men that I date, there are two I would like to get to know better. It would be three, but I scare off the cop with the sweet smile when I enthusiastically ask how many dead bodies he's seen. Well, now he knows what the hell's wrong with me.

But at least I can keep a beat. If music be the food of love, then salsa be the messy leftovers: A roomful of strangers, all different ages and sizes, forced to cling together and sway their hips in sync. There is no better way to beat the passion out of both the dance and the dancers. The Gentleman holds me at foxtrot distance and lets me lead; the Groper's idea of sexy is clutching me so close I can count his stubble while he eyeballs the woman in the short skirt behind me. We'd all be better off learning how to make salsa.

My final score: eight cards. A few are handed over after some animated chitchat, some are drive-bys from men too shy to talk. One guy says he loves my beautiful blue eyes. Thanks; my eyes are brown. But any sense of victory comes with a hint of disappointment. It has been too easy. Turns out all the things I thought I hated about dating — the nervous flirting, the cat-and-mouse game, the chase — are actually part of the fun. I may not have found Mr. Right tonight, but I know that when I do it will take more than three minutes and a two-step.

• JUMANA FAROUKY and ADAM SMITH
• A quick look at speed dating