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[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

Date Twenty One. Anna.

I’m having breakfast with a friend at Brickwood when I receive Mike’s Gif. It’s of a girl in a bikini sitting on somebody’s shoulders and dancing with what appears to be a giant inflatable penis. I don’t know how best to respond to a giant inflatable penis so promptly turn my phone off and continue my conversation with my friend about her boyfriend. She’s been with him for five years and is having some trouble with the fact that he keeps taking her on romantic getaways and vacations at ridiculously short notice. As much she asks him to pre-plan he refuses, so much so that she hardly as time to pack for the trip, let alone plan a bikini wax.

‘It’s very irritating,’ she tells me, munching on her kale. ‘Take last week for example. I hardly had time to cancel my spin class before we had to leave for the airport!’

I look at her and contemplate shoving my zucchini and sweet potato fritter in her eye. What I wouldn’t give for a guy to whisk me away to an exotic destination at a moment’s notice. If I ever do meet someone (emphasis on the ‘if’) I vow never to complain about last minute holidays abroad. I will welcome them with open arms and bask in the spontaneous sexiness of it all, not grumble over my kale salad and wish I was in an exercise class. Girls with boyfriends are as undeserving as the supremely wealthy. They have everything they could ever possibly want and need and still they feel the need to complain. I don’t understand it.

Later that evening I am at my Dad’s house. He’s hosting a BBQ for some family friends and has asked my brother and I to tag along. As I arrive at the house I feel uneasy. Several of the guests are family friends I haven’t seen since my graduation which means I’ll have to speak to them. Several others are new people I’ve never met before. Even worse.

When I do eventually put my plate down (heaped with chicken, steak, bacon and sausages because yes you need all four), my Dad tells me that I’ll be sat inside at the kids table, so I can supervise the kids whilst their parents get tipsy. I shrug like that’s no big deal and a fair trade for some BBQ’d chicken, but inside I’m rather indignant. How at the age of twenty six can I still be expected to be sat at the kids table? I pay taxes. I own a vibrator. What common ground am I going to find with a bunch of children?

I take a seat with caution, in between my brother and my Dad’s neighbour’s daughter, an annoyingly pretty girl with huge brown eyes and not an inch of cellulite on her seriously perfect legs. Most of the kids sat at the kids table are teeangers, which is even worse than sitting with kids. Kids are precocious but at least mildly comical. They can’t cut their food or pronounce certain words which isn’t exactly riveting entertainment but is at least comical. Teenagers on the other hand are moody and irrational. They smell and answer back and say stupid things because they’re angry. Making conversation with a teenager is a pain in the backside because everything they say to you comes with a dollop of sarcasm and pent up emotional anger. I decide I should at least attempt to make polite conversation with the girl next to me so that when my Dad asks me if I made an effort in exchange for my BBQ’d chicken I can at least provide a truthful yes. Any good host’s daughter would. So I take a bite of chicken and steak and bacon combo, and proceed.

‘So, um, Anna, what do you do?’

She looks at me and rolls her eyes. See? There it is. The unnecessary sarcasm. It’s dripping from her.

‘Well.. I’m about to start GCSE’s obviously.’

‘Right, of course. GCSE’s.’

I think back to the time when I had to do GCSE’s. I had curly hair then. I didn’t even own straighteners. I had braces. I was skinny. I had no boobs whatsoever (still don’t but I’ve made my piece with it.) I had a perverse insecurity about myself that wouldn’t even melt away when I was talking to my family members. I became anorexic. I stopped eating ice cream after dinner. I stopped eating pasta with cheese on it. If my mum made me a meal I threw it in the bin, determined as I was to exert control over every element of my culinary existence, to prove some sort of independence that I desperately felt I needed and at the same time was terrified to possess. See? Bloody pent up anger, it was probably dripping from me too back then.

I ask Anna what her and her friends talk about when they hang out. I mean, what sorts of things do teenagers discuss with each other these days? She looks at me and serves another eye roll.

‘Like, clothes. And school. And stuff.’

I ask her if she ever talks about boys.

‘Well, no. Like, we don’t have boyfriends. I’m only fourteen’

Well that’s good to know. Bloody good on you, Anna! Boys suck, way more than you’ll ever understand at your age. They have emotional issues so complex, Sigmund Freud cannot hope to unravel them. They have sexual inadequacies that will horrify you, hygiene issues that will disgust you and senses of humour and timing that will not only baffle you, it will probably scar you. (A guy once told me, drunk, that he found gang rape kind of funny. I never spoke to him again. I also changed the locks on my door.)

When I was fourteen years old, I had never kissed a boy. I’d never even so much as held hands with one. I’d tried to once at my friend Hannah’s Bat mitzvah but had got so nervous I’d chickened out at the last minute so that the hand that had been reaching out for his had sort of jerked out and then come in again over his body like a weird funky robot move performed by an acid tripper. He’d probably figured out what I’d been trying to do at that point and so had told me with sincerity that we probably shouldn’t hold hands, that he actually really fancied my friend and that he didn’t see us going out but that he would definitely add me on Bebo. I remember going home that night armed with the resolution that I was going to become a lesbian.  I didn't really know what a lesbian was but I’d seen First Wives Club and vividly remembered seeing a chunky female actress wearing a man’s tuxedo in a nightclub. At the time I’d thought ‘Oh okay, so being a lesbian is wearing guy’s clothes. Cool. This’ll be a piece of cake. Cool. Don’t need men, I’ll be a lesbian in guy’s clothes.’

I’d raided my Dad’s wardrobe for t-shirts and man’s belts. I think that phase lasted a day. The t-shirts were far too big. My lesbian faze might have kicked off more successfully if my Dad hadn’t worn XXL t-shirts.

I take Anna in. Her chipped nail polish. Her crimped hair. Her braces. Her cheap jewellery. I suddenly feel a pang of jealousy at the fact that she gets to exist in a world that doesn’t obsess over men or orgasms or commitment issues. She doesn’t have to worry about waxing, or coming across as too keen after a second date or whether she will die alone and have to move back in with her parents.

What had I talked about back in the days when I didn’t have men to talk about? The very thought of not having a guy to preoccupy my thinking time seems laughable.

I take out my phone and make a quick calculation. Since breaking up with my boyfriend five years ago I’ve been on approximately one hundred first dates. Of those one hundred, approximately fifty have worked out, ended in a good night kiss and a second meet up. Of those fifty, twenty five transpired into more than three dates. Of those twenty five ‘more than three date candidates’ I ended up properly dating ten of them. (And by properly dating I mean going on over and above ten dates.) Over five years. That is a success rate of ten per cent, meaning that for every hundred dates I have, ten of those are going to be of any use to me. (Or to put it more accurately, for every ten men I meet, one of them will be even slightly resembling a useful suitable companion.

An average (good) date lasts four to five hours. A bad date approximately forty minutes. Since breaking up with my boyfriend, I have had fifty crap dates, twenty five good ones and more than ten dates with over ten men.

Which means..... I’ve racked up a grand total of 670 hours going on dates.

That’s approximately one hundred and thirty four hours a year.

That’s.... 27 days.

That’s almost a month of my life spent on dates.

No wonder I’m broke. I mean, really, it’s no wonder I’m broke. It’s also no wonder that I have so little time to do any of the things I’ve ever really wanted to do. And no wonder I never actually achieve anything. These are small things of course but they’re things I want on my bucket list. Things like... learning to skateboard (it looks kind of cool, I always wanted to try it but I never have any free time. Now I know why.) Or learning how to make a tagine, properly, slow cooked and all. Or attempting to learn Chinese (I say attempting because almost everyone who sits down to learn Chinese gives up after approximately three weeks. I'm not saying that that’s an indication not to try but it’s certainly a reason to consider learning a different language.)

I also calculate the hours I obsess with every wrong relationship/break up/breakdown. I obsess about the date and what went wrong. I mull over the situations with girlfriends. I send my mum self-pitying emails about the topic until she is forced to call me in the middle of the night from Hong Kong (stupid time difference doesn’t lend itself to heartbreak) and tell me that things will be fine, that I won’t die alone, that I’ll meet someone nice and appropriate when I least expect it. Usually the obsessing time lasts longer than the actual dating time which means I’ve probably given up near on a thousand hours of my life thinking about or talking about or obsessing about the opposite sex

So I decide to make a rather serious and controversial decision.

I’m not going to date any more men. I’m not going to think about anymore men. I’m not going to do anything revolving around men. At all. And I mean, at all. Nothing. Nada. Not until I've dedicated enough time to my only self development and self esteem and done the things I want to do for myself. First I need to tick a few things off my bucket list. And get a grip on the sort of person I want to be.

On the way home I receive another message from Mike. It’s a photo of him on a lilo drinking beer. I delete the message and then his number. I don’t have time to be looking at his glorious holiday snaps. I have 670 hours of my life to make up for after all.

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

Date Twenty. Mike.

I’m trying to concentrate. But I can’t. Boss’s secretary is only eighteen yards away, coughing and spluttering into a heap of tissues with enough raucous energy to launch herself off into space. Missiles have been launched at a less ferocious volume.

In case I haven’t expressed this before, I'm a conscientious germ-ophobe. The sort that will actively avoid standing next to sickly people on the London Underground and actually change tube carriages if the person next to me looks peaky. Theresa May should pass a law insisting that flu sufferers wear masks when in public because it’s really quite selfish that they don't. If they complied, people would get less sick, our work would be less disrupted and surely overall the economy would prosper. 

As I (try to) type away at my laptop, some sub copy on Philips power shavers glaring in front of me, my phone vibrates loudly and I pick it up to check the screen. It’s a message from Mike, asking how I am, followed by another message saying that he had a really nice time the other night and would like to meet up again.

I look at the screen, feeling mildly baffled. This is, after all, the same man who refused my sexual advances the last time we hung out. Perhaps I was right about the gay thing and this is just his half hearted attempt at friendship? Is he actually gay? How can I find out? I’m tempted to reply with ‘Aren’t you gay?’ but think better of it. He's Australian after all, the Land of the homophobes. If I accuse him of being gay he’ll only shut down on me or accuse me of being gay or failing that ignore me all together. Instead, I decide I will play along and reply to his message a few hours later with a ‘I’d love to’ and thumbs up emoji which is certainly the most platonic of all emoji out there. 

Truth be told, I’ve always wanted a gay best friend. I sort of had one once but he moved to Canada and the time difference proved too stressful for either one of us to make regular contact. Given my current cyclical dating pattern of ‘meet guy, like guy, get ignored by guy’ perhaps a gay best friend is just the support system I need. Someone sensitive yet stern, with the emotional engagement of a woman and the resilience and straightforwardness of a man. He’ll tell me when my hair looks shit and whether I really need to tint my eyebrows. At the same time, he’ll have a keen understanding of the male psyche (better than any one of my girlfriends would ever hope to possess). Gay men have all the answers. And best of all, they don’t sugar coat them. As I make my way to lunch I’m feeling rather excited not least because my favourite tuna nicoise salad is on the canteen menu. Gay best friend and £3.99 seared tuna Salad! Can this day get any better?

Mike suggests we meet for a drink on Friday evening around Clapham (again), which works for me as it means I have a valid excuse to avoid spin class. As I leave work that evening I feel happy and relaxed. I’ve made zero effort with my appearance this time round. My hair is up, my face is bare and I’m wearing my glasses. 

As I get out of the station I see Mike there waiting for me. Bizarrely this time round he’s dressed in a suit (and sensible shoes) which makes me feel a little intimidated and altogether embarrassed at my somewhat casual appearance. As he kisses me on the cheek he grins and does a double take. 

‘Do you always make this much effort for your dates?’

So this is a date? He’s not gay? I’m completely confused.

‘I thought you were gay,’ I blurt out before I can stop myself. (Good attempt at filtering there Sophie, soon you might be able to stop yourself from saying things altogether.) 

I see Mike look genuinely taken aback and then laugh.

‘You thought I was gay?’ he asks completely incredulously. ‘Why?’

‘Well, you know’, I say waving my arm in the air with an action that would suggest some obvious explanation for my thinking. ‘I thought, given that we didn’t, you know-’

‘Because I didn’t come back with you the other night?’ he says, as if reading my mind. ‘I genuinely needed to get home, it was eleven o clock. I get up at 6 for work on Monday’s. I’m old, you know. I need sleep.’ 

Hmm. When he puts it like that it does sound reasonable. Maybe when I reach thirty four I’ll feel much the same, tempted to go out and shag people yet too overwhelmed with fatigue and the prospect of exhaustion to actually do it. 

We make our way to the pub and Mike gets a pint and I get a Shirley Temple because I have no shame. It’s becoming clear to me now that Mike could be the one to give me the summer fling I so crave. As we chat away the hours tick by and the crowds are once again packing up and leaving us to. Perhaps I should ask him what his plans are for this weekend. I have nothing on Saturday night and my bikini wax will only be good to go for another week. I ask Mike what his plans are and he shrugs. 

‘I’m going to Ibiza’ he says. 

‘Oh, right. Wow, that sounds fun, when did you decided that?’

‘About an hour ago,’ he says, as he sips his beer. 

I ask him how that works exactly. Can people just ‘decide’ to take holidays on a whim? (Everyone knows it takes at least six months to plan a vacation, and another month to decide on what you’re going to take with you.)

He tells me that on the way out of work earlier he got a message from a friend who’s working in Ibiza for the summer. They have a villa and asked Mike if he’d like to come out with them for a few nights. Whilst he doesn’t have any holiday left, Mike proceeds to tell me that he can go for the weekend, this weekend, tonight in fact, fly out in his suit and come back Monday morning. 

I shudder; the whole scenario sounding too disorganised for words. How will he get to the airport? How will he brush his teeth? How will he charge his phone? What will he do for underwear? These questions are ambling through my mind as Mike proceeds to look up flights to Ibiza departing in the next three to four hours from London Gatwick. Eventually he lands on an EasyJet flight departing at 10pm. He asks me whether I would mind cutting our date short because, if he’s going to make the flight, he needs to head off in the next ten minutes or so.

I nod my head, too stunned to speak. The word ‘spontaneous’ doesn’t do this guy justice. He heads over to the bar to settle our tab. This guy is jetting off for a spontaneous trip to Ibiza. By contrast, my contrast involves going to the gym and maybe trying out a new guacamole recipe. #WhatIsLIfe?

And that’s it. Our date, our third date, is well and truly over. At 8.10pm

As I make my way home (alone, having waved Mike farewell to embark his hastily booked flight) I can’t help feeling like my life is a little dull. 

I hastily Google last minute holidays on BA in an effort to reconcile myself to the fact that I too could be spontaneous, I too could live life on the edge. There’s a flight to Barcelona leaving from Gatwick tomorrow at 6am priced £39. My hand hovers over the button but I think better of it and head to the kitchen to make myself some Guacamole. And hey, maybe I’ll put it Tabasco in it this time. I’m spontaneous like that.

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

Date Nineteen. Mike.

I’m peddling at what feels like a hundred miles per hour. Sweat’s dripping into my eyes, burning my eyelids and fuzzing up the sight of the shouting, frenzied female instructor perched on the bike in front of me. She’s bouncing up and down with ease, her legs clearly devoid of human pain and limitation. My legs are numb. I can’t speak. 

‘Faster!” I hear her cry. 

I’m tempted to shout back ‘No’ but my lungs probably don’t have the oxygen capacity.

The woman to my right is coming to a grinding halt. The guy on my left has actually got off his bike, with a look that says ‘Fuck you all, you got me out of bed on a Sunday for this?’

‘KEEP GOING!’ the instructor barks. She looks at the man getting off his bike. He looks at her. I wonder if they’ll come to blows. If they do, I have money on the instructor. 

‘It’s not my fat you’re burning you know.’ She adds this as if for emphasis, as if this is the trick to keeping candidates in the class. I see through my peripherals the man reaching for his backpack and walking out of the revolving door. And then there were twelve.

Twenty minutes later, I am off my spin bike and walking towards Costa. At least, I think I’m walking. To be honest, I’m not sure, I’ve lost the sensation in my legs, yet my body appears to be travelling in the direction that I want it to go in (the direction of coffee and sustenance) which is enough for me. There’s nothing I appreciate more than a post-workout coffee; it’s almost worth the £3.50 charge and fifteen minute queue. I walk out clutching my beverage, the feeling in my legs slowly beginning to return when suddenly out of the corner of my eye I see Mike walking slowly towards me alongside two girls and a guy I’ve never seen before. 

I assess the situation and my appearance. Overall both seem pretty bleak. My hair is plastered to my face and frizzing. My face is beetroot and I have sweat patches under my arms. I could run. Or hide in Costa. Or continue walking. 

I choose the middle ground, sprinting back into the cafe where I pretend to examine the plastic wrapped tuna melts until I can be totally sure that Mike and his posse have officially moved on. Damn. I’d never considered the risks of casually making out with the attractive people living in your area: you can bump into them at a moment’s notice.

Coast clear, I amble home, stopping off at Gail’s to buy myself an extra large chia yoghurt pot and takeaway toast with scrambled egg. (I don't know how they do it but the chef’s at Gail's can make scrambled eggs better than any I have ever eaten. They’ve got that fantastic runny, snotty texture that scrambled eggs should have and which is difficult to achieve at home. There’s also a hint of cream and chive with- oh whatever, I’m digressing. Basically I got eggs and ambled home.)

Once inside I receive a message from Mike. Weird coincidence given that I’ve just seen him. I open it:

‘Hey you. How’s your weekend, fancy a drink tonight?’

I smile. A moment later another message appears:

‘I’ll pick you up at 8. Please don’t still be wearing that gym gear.’

Oh, bugger. He saw me?

***

Six hours and fifty nine minutes later I am scrubbed, preened, shaved, blow dried, fake tanned, waxed (a pre-booking which coincidentally fell on tonight, I swear) and ready for business. I’ve even got a new outfit on; this sort of ‘off the shoulder’ jump suit type thing from Zara which looked bloody brilliant on the hanger yet is unfortunately already giving me a wedgie. Still, discomfort aside, I’m good to go.

At fifteen minutes past, Mike arrives. Annoyingly he appears to be wearing the exact same outfit I saw him wearing that morning: pink t-shirt, faded denim shorts and flip flops. I know Aussie guys have this thing about wearing flip flops every day of the year although given the effort I’ve gone to for our date I feel slightly put out. 

I give Mike a kiss on the cheek hello and ask him where we’re headed.

‘It’s a surprise,’ he says. 

I smile back, curious to know where he envisages us getting in to when he’s dressed in a pair of shorts and sandals. But as we leave my street and turn to the left, walking up the high street I see Mike pause outside All Bar One. Why are we stopping? But Mike is opening the door.

‘Ladies first,’ he says with a smile.

This is where we’re going? But- but- we just had drinks here the other night. Is this meant to be funny?

I must look slightly disappointed. A lack of imaginative first date venue choice from Mike is a clear indication that little effort has been made, which would suggest that I fall into a ranking of ‘not too high’ in his thought process. It would also suggest that he's looking for something fairly casual when it comes to dating me. Either that or he’s forgotten that we’ve already been here which would suggest a high chance of amnesia on his part. In which case I should probably be concerned for him.

We settle in and Mike gets us some cocktails. It’s happy hour, 2 for 1 which Mike seems keen to make the most of which makes me feel a little nauseated: (there’s nothing like buying a girl a discount cocktail to make her feel extra special). I sigh and sit back in my seat, wondering whether the grand total of tonight’s bar tab will surpass the cost of my wax.

As we get talking, Mike is just as I remember him. Fun, quick and not at all serious. I ask him what his plans are for the summer. He tells me he’s keen to get to Ibiza and spend a few weeks out there if he can get the time off work. I shudder inwardly. The idea of Ibiza just doesn’t appeal to me. I love my sleep, a little too much,  and the thought of staying out on a dance floor until 6am feels more like a chore than a holiday. I can never understand people who go out clubbing all night and then continue on the following day. How do they have the energy? It seems odd to me, notably as this is probably the same population of the planet who’ll complain that they don’t have the energy to go to the gym. Weird. I ask Mike what he does for a living and almost drop my drink when he tells me he’s an accountant. The idea seems almost laughable, not least because I’ve yet to see this guy in a proper pair of shoes.

‘You’re an accountant?’ I manage, although what I really want to ask is, ‘You have a brain?’

‘I trained in Australia,’ Mike tells me. ‘It’s a steady living.’

I must say I’m suitably impressed: the man seems to be a curious concoction of ‘God-like abs’ and ‘brainy accountant.’

We swap stories about work and I ask him how long he plans to be in the UK. He shrugs, as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind (given his laissez faire attitude to life it probably hasn’t)  but manages to say that he plans on being here until it gets boring. I'm tempted to ask him what he constitutes as boring (for someone with such a low threshold for it, becoming an accountant seems a strange choice) but instead I sit back and sip my drink, feeling slightly envious of his approach to life. I’d give anything to pack up and leave London one day, to explore living in another city or another country all together. I’ve never lived anywhere else and meeting people like Mike makes me conscious of the closeted, risk-averse existence I do lead.

The hours pass us by and then before we know it the bar is closing. Again. I’m tempted to call it a night but the thought of putting my newly waxed bikini line to waste feels a little depressing so I casually suggest that we continue drinks at mine. Yet Mike shakes his head.

‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘It’s a Sunday. I’ve got to get an early night.’

I blink at him sightly stunned. I don’t think I’ve ever had a guy turn down the offer of coming back to my place before. Not that I’ve made many such offers in my time, but still as suggestions go, it tends to return fairly positive feedback from blokes. Does he not find me attractive?

Mike pays for our drinks and we step out into the street where it’s started to rain, which is annoying as I don’t have an umbrella, my beautifully blow dried hair already threatening to misbehave. 

Mike gives me a kiss on the cheek, looks at me and smiles.

‘This was fun,’ he says. 

I nod my head in half agreement, unsure if it actually was. We’ve gone from cheeky snogs to respectful kisses on the cheek in under forty eight hours which is hardly my definition of fun. The man has also rejected the offer of a potential romp on my couch, which would suggest that he’s not only not attracted to me, he's repulsed. Or gay. Perhaps it’s the jump suit. Perhaps I’ll never know. 

As we make our goodbyes, walking off in separate directions, I have a clearer understanding of the experience when I get back to my flat fifteen minutes later. Mike is a foreigner and tonight’s date was clearly just his poor attempt to make a friend. For a moment I feel slightly touched (one can never have too many attractive, blonde, muscly friends to drink half price cocktails with) albeit frustrated that I put so much time and effort into my appearance for just a chum. Writing up this blog post as ‘Date Nineteen’ now feels a little deceptive.

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

Date Eighteen. Mike.

I meet Mike at 10pm on a Thursday night on the last carriage of a Southbound train to Brixton. He’s wearing long surfer shorts, a pair of flip flops and a t-shirt so tight and white I can see the outline of his abdominal muscle through it. By this point I’m two and half glasses of champagne into my evening and on my way home from a boozy goodbye party at work. I’ve also had no dinner and I’m starving so the sight of a burly, blonde Australian man who looks like he’s just stumbled off from the beach in the middle of April makes me suspect that I’m hallucinating, my long week at the office clearly gotten the best of me. He’s also not alone, but accompanied by two Australia couples: two guys and two girls who seem to be even more intoxicated than me, swinging from the bar of the train carriage and joining hands to sing Oasis’s ‘Wonderwall.’ I catch Mike’s eye and he catches mine, before he sidles over to my side of the carriage and grins. 

‘Sorry about this lot,’ he says with a wry smile and thick Australian accent, ‘They’ve had a few.’

I shrug like it’s no big deal, and carefully study the outline of his nipples through his t-shirt (thank God for fluorescent tube lighting.) He comes and sits in the spare seat next to me. ‘Where are you headed?’ he asks. Before I can so much as utter a response his mate comes over, sticks his hand out to introduce himself then bows dramatically at my feet. He introduces himself as Bren, then points to his fiancee Sheila before finally landing on Mr Abs and introducing him too.

We chat for several stops, Bren, Sheila, Mr Abs, sorry, Mike and I, before crossing over on to the Northern line at Stockwell. I ask them where they’re all headed.

‘All Bar One!’ Bren cries enthusiastically. ‘Our buddy’s the bar tender. Free shots all night.’

‘Want to join?’ Mike asks. 

Whilst I’ve always been a little bit sceptical of men asking me out on public transport, I couldn’t help but feel seduced by Mike’s blue eyes and muscly physique. The thought of free shots felt like too good an offer to turn down, and what harm can ever really come to you when in the company of a couple called Bren and Sheila? I like nights like this. It’s what living in London is all about. Making new friends, meeting new people, singing Wonderwall at the top of your lungs much to your fellow commuters angry stares and eye rolls. 

I heartily accepted their offer. So off we went the six of us, trotting towards All Bar One like the very best of friends. Once inside, talked turned to me: what did I do for a living, where did I live, what was my name, what’s my story? It turned out I was the only Brit amongst them: Bren, Sheila and Mike had known each other at school in Brisbane whilst Shan and Ange the other couple beside us were actually Kiwis, over here for six months backpacking around Europe and friends of Mike’s cousin back home. I instantly felt pretty boring in comparison (’My name is Sophie, I live in London, where I’ve lived all my life... What’s that? No, never lived anywhere else. Nope, I can confirm, nowhere else.) Bren and Sheila seemed surprised at me saying this, albeit slightly disappointed, like my cool girl status in agreeing to have a drink with a bunch of strangers I met on a tube had suddenly been compromised by the fact I’d never travelled abroad. I was in the presence of a group of nomadic wonderers. The sorts of travellers you read about in articles of Esquire, who travel from place to place with a no strings attached attitude to life and work and romance. 

After a few hours, our couples began to section off. Bren and Sheila said they were due at an Engagement party in Peckham, whilst Shan and Ange wanted to call it a night as they had an early CrossFit Session the next day. (Losers.)

And then we were two. (Three, if you count the bartender giving us free shots all night.) I looked at Mike and he looked at me. It was becoming increasingly clear from the amount of hand touching and leg squeezing going on that we fancied each other, though I was beginning to get a slightly uneasy feeling around what exactly Mike expected from our night. After all we’d met in a crowded tube carriage only two hours before. Heaven forbid he thought I was some cheap floozy looking for a one night stand.

I catch Mike’s smile. It’s warm and endearing and I sense he’s older than he’s letting on, the few crows feet around his eyes seemingly at odds with the blonde beach-swept mess of his hair. I slyly ask him is age. He smiles at me. ‘You first,’ he says.

‘Im twenty four.’

‘I’m thirty three.’

And he leans in to kiss me.

Several hours and four watermelon daiquiris later, Mike and I find ourselves back out on the street, All Bar One officially drawing to a close. It’s a warm night with a bit of a breeze, the Common now inundated with drunk twenty somethings pacing the pavements in search of a kebab. Mike asks me where I live and I point towards home. 

‘I’ll walk you?’ he offers.

‘If you like,’ I say, ‘but you’re not coming in with me.’ 

‘Why’s that?’ he asks cheekily.

‘Because,’ I say, ‘I have principles.’

We walk arm in arm towards my place, talking about not very much at all which is nice and relaxed and everything else in between. 

We get to my front door. Mike kisses me goodbye, then asks if he can take my number. I give it to him, not entirely convinced that he’ll get in touch.

I watch him walk away, the light of the street lamps lighting up his t-shirt so that I can see his shoulder blades moving beautifully through the fabric.

Stupid principles.

  ‘

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Date Seventeen. Chris. And Dan. And Steve.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young single woman in possession of a small fortune, expensive taste in shoes and even more expensive taste in London restaurants must be in want of a boyfriend. Sadly the truth remains that most other single women are also looking for the same thing, which makes the competition to find said boyfriend pretty intense and length of time it takes to find him pretty unbearable.

So you can imagine how it came to be that on one sunny afternoon, as I was lulled into a false sense of security by my chronic Friday hangover (thanks Nutella tequila shots, you bastards) I decided to take up my friends’ very strange offer and accompany her and her work mate on a Grouper date.  

For those who haven’t heard of this old school phenomenon, Grouper is a ‘date night out’ with a difference, in which not one, not two but three single females are matched on a first date with three equally single men. Sounds pretty awkward in theory and in reality it is even more so. One on one first dates are bad enough. Lump six miserable single people around a packed table on a Thursday night and it’s safe to say the only thing you’ll be exchanging are tales of cynicism and low grade sexual infections.

And how one might ask do you find two people, lonely enough and desperate enough to engage in this horrible six-some? The answer is by messaging everyone in your contact book and leaping on the first stupid person to give some semblance of a positive response (boy do I now regret adopting a ‘Yes, Man’ mantra to life this month.)

Still, having been promised several half price cocktails at a bar of my choosing as a reward for attending, it came to be that I found myself tucked up at a bar in Covent Garden one warm Thursday night after work, my friends Anna and Mel beside me, feeling absolutely terrified and wondering what the hell I’d gotten myself into. To be fair we’d already had a few warm up beverages at the local pub before arrival so I was certainly feeling more chipper than I had been forty five minutes ago. 

Before our dates arrived, we rustled up a few contingency plans for how to handle the evening, on the off chance that all three of us ended up fancying the same guy. (Given our rather contrasting taste in boyfriends over the years, the chance of this happening felt rather unlikely although, as the Cub scouts say, it never hurts to be prepared.)

So we waited. And waited, darting our heads around at every half decent looking group of guys to enter the bar on the off chance that they happened to be our matches for the evening. Eventually our men arrived, ushered over to us by a rather bored looking waitress who clearly dealt with these sorts of situations all the time and didn’t like young people or any human beings at all for that matter.

We made our hello’s (*insert awkward hand shakes and mis-cheek kisses here) and sat down to drinks. Of the three guys I could see only one that stood out in terms of possessing any real physical niceties and clearly my friends had picked up on this too. (To my right I could see Anna re-postioning her top in an effort to show off more cleavage whilst Mel, who lacked cleavage, tousled her hair back and forth like a ‘My Little Pony’ character emerging from out of a rainbow.)

After the first round of drinks (we’d all unanimously decided that we’d be doing rounds, God help Monzo) the girls and I made a quick trip to the ladies room so that we could a) fix our makeup b) assess the situation (did anyone need an emergency getaway plan?) c) fix our makeup.

Once in the bathroom of course all talk turned to the boys. Did we fancy any of them, what did we think of their hands, of the three who smelt the best etc.  The words were out before I could stop myself. ‘I kind of fancy Chris,’ I said. 

I waited for the reaction, the semi-cat fight to ensue (of course they all fancied Chris!) but instead they looked at me and gaped. 

‘Chris?’ Anna said. ‘Bleugh! No! I think Steve is the best looking.’

‘You’re both mad,’ Mel said. ‘Dave is the only attractive one. By a mile.’

Well that settled it. We wouldn’t be gunning for the same guy after all.

After a few hours of the guys plying us generously with tequila shots we girls suggested a game of beer pong to take our new found, weird group friendship to the next level. After picking our teams rather carefully and ensuring that each girl was standing on the same side of the guy she fancied (we may be pissed as fuck, but we’re also strategic) the game ensued. I got chatting a little more to Chris, who it turned out wasn’t as good looking up close in the fluorescent lights where our beer pong table was positioned as he had been in the half darkness over by the bar. Still, he was a living, breathing, literate male who seemed to be showing some sense of an interest in me which, given my partially inebriated state, seemed more than enough to give my night a big thumbs up for effort.

After a couple of hours of beer pong the boys suggested a new venue, the Magdalen, about ten minutes down the road. So we gathered our things and headed over. By this point Anna and Steve were walking arm in arm and Dave and Mel were having some sort of half flirty/half academic conversation about the state of Libya and how NATO should tackle deficit claims. 

Chris on the other hand was becoming relatively touchy with me which, flattered as I was, posed something of an irritation, for at this stage in the evening I was hangry as hell and wanted nothing more than to be left alone to scoff a pepperoni pizza in private. I could smell chicken on the street, my stomach did a backflip and I asked Chris if he felt like splitting a Nando's with me as the others went ahead. 

‘Now?’ he looked at me incredulously, like the very notion of eating food at dinner time was some sort of cryptic phenomenon . I nodded vigorously, the thought of Peri Peri chicken overwhelming my senses, so much so that Chris himself was slowly beginning to resemble a plate of peri chicken. His hair wax like chicken marinade. His arms like wings. His thighs like, well, thighs...

I asked him again if he fancied a plate of chicken. ‘I have a Nando’s card,’ I added with enthusiasm (men do rate a Nando’s card) and rummaged in my wallet to show him that I did indeed possess one.

Chris laughed like this was the funniest thing he’d ever heard and I cringed inwardly. (What sort of sick bastard laughs at a Nando’s card?!)

Still, eventually he gave in and we headed over to the awaiting restaurant. Chris ordered a small, lemon and lime chicken Pitta (pussy) and I order a medium, half chicken with fries and Macho peas. We sat down to eat, inhaling our food within minutes and not speaking in the process which is just the way I like it. 

My mood bolstered and my stomach full, we headed to the pub to find the others. Unfortunately things appeared to have escalated quite dramatically since our departure: Dave and Mel were already getting off in a corner of the pub whilst Steve and Anna were necking Jaeger bombs at the bar with speed. I looked at Chris and he looked at me; our hearty chicken meals had sobered us enough to make us feel slightly out of place in this now hedonistic scenario. We stood in silence for several moments unsure of how to proceed. In an effort to break the ice, I tentatively asked Chris if he wanted to see the waterskiing squirrel meme I had downloaded on my phone, an offer he politely accepted. We went outside to the terrace and looked at memes for a quarter of an hour before going back inside to learnt that Mel and Dave had left the premises in an Uber LUX, courtesy of Dave, whilst Steve has gone outside to make a courtesy call to his girlfriend. This last piece of information came as quite a bit of a surprise. Surely Dave’s girlfriend would find issue with the fact that Dave was out on a Grouper date? What with Anna’s look of annoyance and Chris’s look of sheepishness I decided it was probably time to call it a night.

As those remaining made their goodbyes, Chris pulled me aside and asked me if I’d be keen to take his number to go out again. Whilst the world ‘keen’ felt like a bit of an overkill from my perspective, one can never have too many quiet friends to share a plate of Nando's chicken with. I nodded my head in agreement, secretly wishing that he’d forget to contact me.

As Anna and I walked to the tube I contemplated the success of our first Grouper night out, which seemed to consist of a dead cert one night stand and bar tab total of £200.

I got a message on my phone from a surname-less Chris seven days later along the lines of ‘Hello, do you fancy a bite to eat this week’ alongside an emoji of a roast chicken. After a good few minutes of brain racking and trying to remember who the the hell Chris was I found myself unsure of whether or not to  reply. Seven days is a long time in Dating Land, a time frame that positively screams ‘lack of interest’. Anything could have happened to me in this seven day window which would easily justify a lack of response. I could have dropped my phone, been run over by a train, been committed or sent to prison. I could have developed a nasty case of tonsiltis or lost both my hands in a motorbiking accident thus rendering me unable to reply to iMessages.  I don’t reply and hastily and guiltily delete Chris’s number, opting this time round (for the first time) to play dead.

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Date sixteen. Sam.

It’s five thirty on a Friday afternoon when I receive another message from Sam asking me if I want to come to a gig with him for this Saturday night. I hesitate, partly because I don’t know whether people still go to gigs (and if they do, what they wear) and partly because I have no idea if a second date (meet up/hang-out/whatever you want to call it) with Sam is such a good idea anyway. I still haven’t had the balls to chuck Russell (I know) and a little part of me still wants to hang on to Russell in case things with Sam don’t work out (I know.) 

So going completely and entirely against my better judgement (and feeling like one hell of a wanker to boot) I tell Sam that I would absolutely love to see him again and that Saturday would work perfectly for me. I then quickly text my friend Mel to tell her that I’m really sorry to have to cancel our plans for Saturday night because I’m coming down with a cold/possible hernia. (What, like you haven’t done it?) 

Sam responds with a happy face emoji (a promising sign that he wants to see me again, either that or it’s a sign he’s on Acid) and tells me that the gig is in Mayfair and will start at 11pm. I have no idea what one wears to a gig in Mayfair and so promptly Google ‘gig Mayfair’ to see if the Internet can cough up a better suggestion for an outfit than I can. 

It can’t. 

Friday afternoon drifts lazily by and I end up at my father’s house for dinner a short while later. I brief him quickly on the scenario and he shakes his head sadly. ‘It’s such a shame, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Lonely for years, and now? You have two.’ He continues to shake his head, as if my telling him that I have a second date is sad news, worthy of a moment’s quiet reflection, like Armistice Day. I promptly tell him that in this day and age, everyone is dating multiple people and everyone is getting away with it (a sentence uttered more to calm my growing hysteria than to attempt to justify the shallow behaviour of people my age dating multiple people, the cheating bastards!) Still, he only shrugs and sighs and continues to tell me how sad it is that I am alone and that if ever want to come and watch Netflix with him and his girlfriend I only have to ask, it really wouldn’t be that much of an inconvenience, there’s enough space on their sofa for three. The thought of spending a Saturday night holed up with my Dad and his girlfriend watching Homeland feels even more depressing than spending the rest of my life alone. I promptly decline.

I leave my Dad’s place three hours later feeling more uncomfortable than I did before. Now wracked with Jewish guilt (it’s worse than regular guilt and far more irrational) I’m beyond edgy and wondering what the point is on going on this date after all. Sam and I have nothing in common. Our smells don’t work. We’re better off as friends not people trying to have sex with each other. And yet a little part of me is still excited at the thought of seeing him again, notably because he’s a fairly good kisser, more notably because I’ll know he’ll pay for drinks.

By the time Saturday comes along I’m feeling much more confident. Russell has ignored several of my Whatsapps (including a funny meme about a koala bear trying to water ski) so I’m beginning to feel completely justified in my decision to go on a date with another man. For all I know, only two miles away in Brixton, Russell could also be snuggled up to someone else, also feeling guilty (or not, as his lack of Jewish-ness will attest to.) It’s too soon in the relationship to know my rights on exclusivity and it’s too soon in the relationship to query them. Guilt pacified, I start to get ready.

Sam’s fifteen minutes late when he turns up for our date, an annoyance I quickly forget despite the fact that I made a supreme effort to be on time and in the right place for this one. I’m happy to see him (he smells even better than I remember) but as we get to talking, something feels off. Our words are flowing and our conversation is engaging, but even though we’re standing next to each other, we don’t seem to be in the same place. We keep mishearing and misunderstanding which is frustrating (there’s nothing less sexy than yelling ‘Wha-at’?’ repeatedly into someone’s left ear) and the connection I felt between us at James’s birthday party seems to have dissipated. I shrug my shoulders, forcing myself to relax and do what any sensible woman in her twenties can do in an awkward situation such as this. Drink. Heavily.

Three hours later I am the life and soul of the party. Sam is hanging on to my every word, the music is pumping, I’m dancing with enthusiasm and my hair (if my reflection in the dance floor mirror is anything to go by) is terrifically bouncy. Oh and I’m also royally fucked. Like ‘one and a half bottles of prosecco on an empty stomach’ fucked. Still-holding-it-together-but drunk is the vibe and I am rocking it with every fibre of my inebriated being.

As the night goes on, Sam and I pick up where we left off. Kissing, cuddling, grinding (him, not me) and the vibe is as electric as it was when we first met, thank God. At some point in the night, music plays (presumably it comes from the band we came to see). It sounds super average, but I applaud loudly regardless. Why? Because I’m royally drunken and drunk people like to applaud things for no tangible or explicit reason.

 For the first time I begin to register the fact that mine and Sam’s chemistry is possibly down to alcohol not character: when we’re drunk (one or both of us) we really do get along like a house on fire. When we’re sober (one or both of us, it’s a difference story. I wonder if a relationship can survive on alcohol.) And so it will come as no surprise to you readers that at 2am, when Sam asks me to go home with him, I wholeheartedly agree, call us an Uber and journey to Maida Vale snuggled dutifully by his side.

The minute we get through the door however, I’m starting to sober up and the idea of having frantic, meaningless sex is somewhat losing its appeal. Annoying and logical questions begin to seep through my mind. Questions like ‘What the fuck am I doing here’ and ‘Why did I agree to come home with Sam and ‘Why am I not wearing matching underwear.’ I can sense the impact of what I’m about to do. I've never had a one night stand before and I certainly didn’t intend to have one when I came out tonight (hence the erratic white bra, blue knickers combo underneath my clothes.)

I ask Sam if I can borrow his toothbrush and retreat to the bathroom to freshen up and stall time. I shouldn’t be here. I’m technically seeing someone else with the potential that it could turn into something more serious and surely putting another man’s appendage inside me at this stage in the game puts a slight dampener on that happening. I briefly check my phone and find to my slight surprise that I still have no reply from Russell. It’s been almost 24 hours. I realise with a sick smile that he too could be out at this very moment, about to put his appendage into someone or something else that isn’t me, about to have a one night stand, about to feel a bit guilty about it. I smile at the thought and feel instantly comforted.

Sam’s already in bed when I come out of the bathroom. He reaches over to turn the light off as I get in next to him.

* * *

I wake up eight hours later feeling wretched (kind of like how I imagine Carrie Bradshaw must have felt after sleeping with Big for the first time only a week after Aidan told her he was in love with her. What is wrong with my gender?) I look over to see Sam, also awake, having a cigarette on the landing. I think back to last night: a lot of kissing, a lot of touching... but no sex. Hoorah! I smile to myself as Sam sidles back into the bed with me but I don’t really feel like touching him or for that matter, touching anyone. I just want to go home. And shower.

Of course Sam asks me if I want to get breakfast with him. I sense his offering is just a formality so tell him cordially that I’m really not hungry only to hear a rumble come out of my stomach with the decibel reading of a lawn mower. I think back to last night and realise why: all I had to eat before leaving the house was a small handful of Cheerios and a raspberry Frube. Sam is looking at me. He knows I’m starving. He knows I’m a greedy little monster and that I can’t say no to breakfast (in fact my love of breakfast was one of the things we first discussed when we met.) So out of politeness I re-jig my answer and get dressed to go for food. With Sam. Me and Sam. Together. Having breakfast. In broad daylight. Lovely.

Once outside, reality hits. Notably it’s a reminder that I’m walking around at eleven am on a Sunday dressed in leather boots, a tight skirt and a halter top which is by no means conservative. We’re in a respectable area of London which only makes it worse, walking amongst middle class families holding children and organic vegetables. I hitch my skirt further down my bottom in an effort to feign respectability but I can feel the eyes of preying toddlers looking up and judging me from their strollers. Bastards. Still, in twenty years it’ll be them.  They should get to see the mistakes they’ll make one day. It’s only right.

After breakfast, Sam walks me to the tube and I get the growing feeling that he and I won’t be seeing each other again. After a peck on the cheek I’m in the underground feeling guilty, nauseous and oh so full of scrambled eggs.

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Date fifteen. Russell.

You know those moments in life when things are going monumentally right? Your skin looks great, your digestion is on track. Your hair’s developed a sheen that not even a quantum and unaffordable amount of conditioner can generate. Things are working out. Life is good. BBC news seems less depressing than usual. For me these moments are few and far between. They probably make up approximately two weeks of every year. Life will suddenly tick into beautifully synchronised bliss and for a short while I begin to think that I might not be the central figure in someone’s evil pawn game after all. The last time I felt like this was in December. Of 2015. It was a great 24 hours.

Weirdly, today I find myself feeling somewhat the same again: happy and settled, sexual and appreciated. It couldn’t last. Things with Russell seemed to be going from strength to strength, meanwhile I still had a vested interest in Sam. Reaching the top of the dating mountain is a dangerous thing, particularly with two separate men in tow for the fall from that point can only be a monumental one. Studies show that you’re far more likely to die walking back down a mountain than you are going up it and of course the dating mountain is no exception. People always proceed with caution when they’re ascending a great height. The minute they get to the top, and reach the summit, all hell breaks loose. Ankles collapse. Knees graze. Heads get concussed. You fall off the edge. So needless to say, I had to be on my guard. For this was the week that Russell invited me to a pub quiz with some of his friends. This was a turning point in our four week relationship: a chance to make our break. 

Let it be known: pub quizzes are not my strong suit. I lack the basic general knowledge that even an eight year old can lay claim to. The capital of India was only known to me six months ago. (Apparently it isn’t Kashmir. Apparently Kashmir no longer exists as a country and for that matter, was it ever a country?) People like me shouldn’t be allowed to enter pub quizzes. We let the team down and then have to spend the rest of the night apologising profusely for it. I decide to tell Russell that I’m not very good at pub quizzes.  ‘Don’t worry,’ he says, ‘We don’t take them too seriously.’ 

I’ve learned from bitter experience not to trust people who invite you to a pub quiz only to then tell you that they don’t take pub quizzes seriously. Entering a pub quiz of any sort demonstrates some sort of sick, inner desire to win it. You don’t enter a race with the desire to lose it and why waste your time investing energy into an activity you have every intention of not being at least mildly successful in? I should have known better as soon as I heard him utter the words ‘we,’ suggesting that there was in fact a collective group of ‘we’s’ that he was involved in pub quizzing with, each one intent on winning no matter how many lives it cost them. This wasn’t just some pie in the sky thinking for a Tuesday night social event. This was an orchestrated group of dynamo’s who met regularly and identified as a ‘we’ with a collective amount of general knowledge at their disposal. Hell, they were enough of a ‘we’ to warrant being a group of people to turn up and participate in things if that wasn’t intimidating enough. I shuddered, sensing matching t-shirts of a sort. Was Russell really worth this potential social grievance?

I turned up on Tuesday night feeling apprehensive and negative, dressed in my best attempt at an ‘I belong at a pub quiz’ outfit (which consisted of beige chinos and a stripy blue top with flats if you’re wondering.)

Seeing a gaggle of people crowding to get onto one very tightly packed pub floor made me nervous and I immediately craned my neck searching for Russell. Eventually I spotted him sat at a wooden table with four other people, their eyes alight with optimism and intelligence. (Oh, to be alight with intelligence.) Several of the guys were wearing boater shoes. One girl was wearing an actual hair band. I thought quickly back to Sam and the wonderful hours we’d spent at James’s birthday party together, quoting South Park season 12 whilst smoking a joint out of the bathroom window. Heightened intelligence really is so overrated.

I sat down, gave Russell a kiss and introduced myself to my new teammates. Russell’s housemate Robin seemed pleasant enough, until he began telling me what he did for a living (something to do with numbers which wasn’t an Engineer or an Accountant.) A lot of people seem to have jobs nowadays which, when relayed to another human being, don’t actually mean anything. Directorial Analyst for example. What am I meant to do with that? Does that give me any glimmer of insight about what you do for a living? No. I wish people would be more specific. ‘I look after business accounts for a living’ or even ‘I pretend to handle social media platforms whilst also browsing Facebook.’ 

After a few drinks and some small talk an alarm sounded (yes, an actual alarm) and the quiz commenced where we began with the topic of MP’s. But not our MP’s. The MP’s of the European Union. I can barely point out Europe on a map, let alone tell you the names of the people running it so suffice it to say the first twenty minutes of that quiz were completely lost on me. I tried to join in with enthusiasm and pull a few faux head scratches, but after it had become clear to everyone that I really didn’t know what I was talking about I just decided to sit quietly and sing Taylor Swift songs in my head.

By the time the Entertainment section came round I was feeling more hopeful. As someone who prides herself on watching more hours of television than the average lonely, single woman, I felt I actually had a chance to speak in this round, maybe even come up with an answer to a question.

As it turned out, I didn't. For the questions commenced as thus:

 ‘Which Iranian TV channel was recently cancelled after the producers were found guilty of embezzlement?’

I mean. What-the-actual-fuck? I look around the room only to see people writing down actual answers which surprised me. Were they were just stabs in the dark or did these people actually know something? I look at Russell. He’s locked in a whispered conversation with Robin and I actually hear him say, ‘I want to say the Farsi Network, but I can’t be sure!’

I lean back and gulp my drink in irritation. I have no place here. I feel sad and de-valued. This must be how Teaching Assistant’s feel everyday.

I gaze at Russell and wonder if I can really bring myself to date someone who cares about Persian television. The quiz master then moves on to a question about (dead) Irish movie stars from the 21st century and I decide it’s time to go to the loo. I’ll be safe in there. I cast an evil glance at the quiz master on my way with a look that says ‘How dare you make me feel so intellectually inferior!’ I feel I’m justified in asking to have my £2.50 contribution fee back. After all, I’m not contributing.

As I sit in the cubicle (in silence with no intellectual pressure to speak of) I get a text on my phone from Sam, with a link to the latest BuzzFeed facts on ‘What You Didn’t Know About Hamsters.’ Apparently they can breathe underwater for up to two minutes before their brains shut down. I smile and decide that the next man I date must sit somewhere in between on the spectrum that vies from BuzzFeed hamster articles to details about the US Nato Agreement.

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Date Fourteen. Sam.

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Date Thirteen. Sam (and Russell)

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Date Twelve. Russell (again)

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Date Eleven. Russell

My girlfriend Chloe told me about a house party she’d been to the weekend before last, where she’d clocked eyes on a guy, standing by the microwave in the kitchen who who’d been tall, dreamy and endowed with just the right amount of arm hair. He’d also had a slight look of Eddie Redmayne about him: a winning feature in her eyes (he doesn’t do it for me in any way shape or form since I met the female partner of a friend who looks exactly like him) and as she’d watched him sip his Desperados, her crush grew. Several hours went by. She stayed lurking by said microwave, mentally undressing him with her eyes and praying to every Pagan God in existence that he might eventually come over to introduce himself. He never did. Instead, he stared back at her, smiled several times but eventually left the party with the group of friends he’d arrived with. She tells me this story over drinks at Netil 360 in Hackney and I am so outraged by her passivity in the situation (and so eagerly gesticulating the indigence of response) that I almost knock over the overpriced Apple and Elderflower mojitos being served by the waitress beside us. As the waitress departs casting me a filthy look, I ask Chloe why she hadn’t had the bloody balls to go and start a conversation with the Redmayne lookalike herself. Given the smiles he’d been dishing out through the course of the evening, she’d clearly had a green light and known it was STP (Safe To Proceed). She laughed at my suggestion, as if I’d suggested that she shave her head to raise money for a cat refuge and told me that she would never, ever, be the one to make the first move in a (potentially) romantic situation. I grimaced at that one, feeling a sense of shame at my friends’ cowardice. I’m not a particularly confident person at the best of times and there are never any guarantees in this world that the item you pursue will be worth the effort spent in obtaining it. At the same time life is short and you miss every shot you don’t take. As I thought about Chloe’s dilemma on the way home I realised that all my girlfriend’s relationships had come to fruition because their boyfriends had taken it upon themselves to get the conversation started. But these were examples of couples who had been together for years. Hell, some of these relationships pre-dated Tinder. Now? The times, they were a-changing. In the last few years with social media and dating apps I do genuinely believe that men have gotten lazy and taken a back seat in terms of initiating dates in the real world. So women have become stuck and unsure of where they stand. A guy looking at you for hours on end no longer follows by their getting up and making their way over for an introduction. In app world, the conversation is flowing. In the real world, each sex is waiting for the other to get up off the arse and offer to buy a round of drinks. The result? A stalemate. In this age of simulated dating, if women wanted something, they had to learn to get it themselves. So it seemed like no surprise at all when Bumble made it’s way on to the radar. It’s design is to give women a head start in the dating stakes, so much so that women are forced to initiate the conversation if they want the match to remain. Men can’t make the first move yet the idea of a woman conducting an opening line seemed fundamentally mortifying. I had no choice but to give it a go. So I downloaded it one Thursday night and began flicking through the candidates available like they were pages in a magazine (the callous offhand behaviour of anyone on a dating site nowadays.) From first impressions I could see that the app made for a slightly better ‘type’ of man. They were fitter, more attractive, better dressed, better travelled, which immediately made the process feel far more intimidating. As someone who writes copy for a living, I thought the ‘girl talks first’ routine would come to me quite naturally, yet when posed with a blank screener and even blanker text box I realised I didn’t have a clue as to what my opening line should be. Do I go down the cute, girlie route? I’m home alone watching a scary movie and you’re not here to protect me? A promising start if you’re trying to attract a misogynist bank clerk perhaps. I could go down the mildly sexual suggestive route, ‘Are you a good cuddler? You can join my gang. Suddenly a match pops up. Russell. Twenty five. Six foot tall, a keen foodie and a sales manager at Burberry. As much as I knew I’d enjoy dating a man who could get me discounted designer handbags, there was something about his face that I found instantly appealing. His profile also held several pictures of him on nights out with friends. I took in their faces one by one They looked like kind, fun, unpretentious people; the sort of group I’d like to spend time with on a Saturday night should things between Russell and I ever evolve. But what should my opening line consist of? I glance to his last photo. It is Russell, standing on a beach stretch wearing a hideously unappealing Justin Bieber t-shirt. I hope this is some sort of ironic statement and decide to use this as conversation- starter ammo. ‘Loving the shirt. Can I borrow it sometime?’ I press send and immediately regret it. He’ll probably interpret it as sleazy and not reply. Or reply with a one word response (closed, no question mark) a clear suggestion that he doesn’t want the conversation to continue. I wait patiently and am about to move on to another candidate (Richard, lawyer, twenty seven) when the small grey conversation bubble appears on screen. He was typing! After a moment a message appears. ‘By all means. But only if I can take you for a drink first?’ I smile, the question mark already spurring my confidence. I reply, ‘Of course. It would be inappropriate to suggest that you leave your t-shirt with a total stranger.’ Our conversation continues for almost an hour. It’s so good I abandon Made in Chelsea on demand, my conversation with Russell utterly absorbing my interest. By eleven thirty I’m exhausted and things are drawing to a close so I ask him when he wants to meet me for that drink. I wait. And wait. Several minutes go by. Nothing. Perhaps he’s gone to sleep. Perhaps he’s changed his mind about meeting me. Perhaps he’s chatting to someone else (someone with enormous breasts, dark hair and angular, exotic features.) I rock up to work the next morning, keeping a hopeful eye on my Bumble inbox. It’s empty. I tell myself to stop being silly, that he’s probably hard at work and will reply over lunch. Lunchtime comes and goes and I cease to get an answer. By the afternoon I’m angry and have decided that Russell is quite clearly a player; the sort who sprouts false promises to women about taking them for drinks and letting them borrow his Justin Bieber t-shirts. I’ve also decided that his lack of response boils down to the fact that he thinks I’m ugly, or not good enough, or all of the above. But just as I’m packing up my computer to go home I receive a message from Russell. ‘How about drinks tonight?’ I freeze. I want to reply, but know from experience that last minute dates are usually a sign that the initiator is a) bored b) desperate c) just been cancelled on. Saying that, I had nothing to lose by meeting him and nothing else to do for the evening other than watch the made in Chelsea episode I’d neglected to watch the night before. Several minutes go by and I message him back, agreeing to the date. You miss all the shots you don’t take, after all. We decide to meet in an hour at Piccadilly Circus, which gives me just enough time to pop into Boots and ravage the foundation counter for some semi decent coverage. (I’d gone into work sans-makeup and my trusty Mac Makeup was at home. I rush along, kicking myself for failing to leave an emergency make up kit in the office for such situations). An hour later and I’m standing outside Piccadilly station, looking slightly more acceptable and feeling very nervous. Russell’s photos had looked promising- he was tall, attractive and still had all his hair- and it had occurred to me that he might feel disappointed when we meet. What would I do then? Go home and feel dejected until February? I’m deep in thought about how best to cope with this potential emotional turmoil when I feel a hand tap me on the shoulder and turn around to see Russell- ‘slightly chubbier than his photos’ Russell-smiling down at me. We head to Archer’s bar and order some g&t’s before settling into a conversation. The topics flow naturally and we have more than enough to talk about. He’s funny, and attractive in a soft, public school boy sort of way, but as we delve deeper into the discussion, I feel my spider senses start to tingle. I’m baffled by my own awareness; this guy has been nothing but charm since we sat down to our drinks. So why do I feel so uneasy? I have always had incredibly strong instincts. When my parents had first told me that they were getting a divorce I could remember feeling a sense of relief. Relief because I’d sensed for months that their marriage was in trouble, yet every time I’d brought up the subject they’d just laughed it off as my neuroses. It had gotten to a point where I’d begun to doubt my own judgement. When they’d told me months later that my worst fears had come to fruition I could remember feeling (other than very sad) a weird sense of victory and it had taken me a lot for me not to shout ‘Ha! I told you so!’ really loudly into their faces across the dining table. No one wants to feel like their innate instinct is incorrect; they’re what guide us when the facts are hazy and unknown. A person with bad instincts will always be at a disadvantage in life. Our instincts have been honed since evolutionary times and they’re still with us for a reason; in the past, they protected us from predators and animals of prey, in the modern world, they protected us from car salesmen and unsavoury first dates. So there Russell and I are, sat together, fairly comfortably, discussing family, travel and work. I ask Russell where he sees himself in five years time, a typical first date question, that I never have any qualms in asking. Why? The answer tells you everything you need to know about a person: particularly if they’re worth a second date or not. (I mean, think about if. Say their answer involves travel, partying and setting up a surf school in New Mexico. With an answer like that, odds are they’re not interested in building a lasting or committed relationship with anyone. If the answer involves promotions, pay packets and climbing up the business ladder you’re no better off, as these pursuits are single minded and self involved. A guy with an ambition like that is the sort of guy who’ll cancel on you at the last minute because he’d rather spend his time in the office, crunching numbers and schmoozing with the boss over a few beers. You’ll never win with a guy like that. You’ll also never be able to break up with him because he won’t have an evening free in his work diary to sit down and listen to you tell him that you don’t see it working anymore. I watch Russell as he contemplates his answer. He thinks for a minute and eventually tells me that he wants to work his way up through the chain at Burberry before hopefully settling down and buying a place outside of London. I’m secretly pleased and give him a mental tick next in the box marked ‘adult aspirations.’ A few hours later I float the question of food and he nods eagerly. I don’t know whether this eagerness is down to hunger or the fact he wants the date to continue but we settle up our tab and head off in search of food. When the food bill arrives, Russell suggests that we split it. I lean back in my chair and do a quick re-evaluation. The drinks bill was also split in two and Russell made no offer of paying it. This guy may not be as interested or gentlemanly as I first perceived. Everyone knows a guy offers to pay when he likes you and the offer of a split bill (even if you wish to contest it) is insulting. I quickly weigh up the evening in my head. Russell’s smiling at me, listening to my every word, asking me plenty of questions about myself and already making suggestions about what we could do for a second date. Perhaps his desire to avoid payment has more deep seated roots than I care to consider. Perhaps he’s a gambler and heavily in debt; he badly wants to pay for our meal but lacks the financial means to do so. Perhaps, instead of judging him I should be pitying him (whilst helping him find a support network to sort his addictions.) After dinner we head towards the tube and Russell puts his arm around me. It’s a classic first move, but in this instance feels natural. I wonder if he’s going to kiss me and if so when he’s going to do it. The tube’s getting nearer and we’re still walking towards it. Before long we’ll be in the underground, surrounded by people and standing under those hideously unflattering strip lights that make most commuters look like they have an unfortunate case of jaundice. As we got to the ticket barrier to say our goodbyes, I stand there deliberately, hopefully making it clear that I’m expecting a goodbye snog. (My friends always criticising me for kissing on a first date but for me, a good kiss is as important as good conversation. There’s simply no point in having one without the other and if the chemistry isn’t there you might as well know about it before investing more time in the relationship.) Russell smiles at me, hopefully taking my hint. He starts to lean in but instead of landing on my mouth, lands on the cheek next to it. ‘I’ll see you soon’ he whispers, giving me a quick peck before walking through the security barrier and into the distance. I watch him leave, my disappointment mounting. It is a thoroughly shoddy end to a date, one that gives me no choice but to conclude that he found me utterly repulsive. I let this feeling of humiliation sink in as I make my way home, my anger boiling as I watch various couples around me happily entwined in each others’ faces. (Clearly ordering garlic bread had been a bad idea on my part.) By the time I get off the tube, I’m in an emotional pit of despair so deep, only a fireman with a flashlight and eighteen yard safety rope could possibly get me out of it. But when I come out of the tube at Clapham Common, I see a message waiting in my inbox. It’s from Russell. ‘Terrific’, I think, ‘he’s probably going to tell me that he just wants to be friends.’ But when I open the message, bracing for humiliation, I am pleasantly surprised. ‘Hey Soph, hope you got home alright. It was lovely to meet you. I’m glad I took the chance to ask you on a date. Would really like to see you again next week if you’re up for it. Let me know what night you’re free if so. Sweet dreams.’ I stare at the message for about twenty seconds before bursting into uncontrollable laughter. My excessive giggling is enough to distract the couple walking in front of me who turn back and cast me a filthy look as if I’m some irresponsible drunkard taken to disturbing the peace and laughing at absurdities on their iphone. I message Russell when I get home and decide to be bold. Hey. After the lack of kiss at parting I’d assumed you weren’t interested (*embarrassed sad face monkey emoji.) But I’d love to see you again. A minute later I got the reply, ‘But you didn’t try to kiss ME!’ Jesus. It seems men need their hands held even more than I’d realised.....

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

Date ten. Grouper

They say good things come to those who wait. Unfortunately, they fail to specify how long you’re expected to wait for. So, whilst waiting patiently for fate to take its course, there seems to be no harm in trying to artificially speed up the process, by taking part in events that might get you what you want a little quicker. I believe it’s this sort of fast-action thinking that’s responsible for bringing easy bake ovens and ready-made pancake mix into the world. And where would we be without them? Probably hovering over an Aga, and making pancakes from scratch, that’s where. So whilst operating under this rather weighty rationalisation, I decided to extended my dating horizons from Tinder, to sign up for a Grouper date with my two single girlfriends. Before I continue, please let me explain: Grouper is not an online site for swingers or those in search of weird, group sex-antics. It is in fact an online dating set-up, with the purpose of sending you and your single mates on a group date with other like-minded groups of people, three on three being the desired maximum. (In Grouper’s eyes, I suppose ‘six’ means company whilst ‘seven’ is seen as just downright overdoing it.) The time, booking and location of the date is organised in advance by the website co-ordinator – all you need to do is show up on time. (It’s the perfect device for those of us juggling busy work lives and who are utterly lacking the imagination needed to think up first date venues.) I won’t lie. After so many recently unsuccessful Tinder dates, the thought of going out for a group equivalent seemed like a blessing rained down by the Dating Gods themselves; no longer would I be forced to endure the total horror of a strangers’ faux pas. No longer would I be the sole survivor of my maiden voyage into dating waters. For this time I could drag my friends along with me to drown at my side. And if I was going down, I had absolutely no qualms in taking five others with me. My friends and I decide to meet for a quick bite in Covent Garden before the evening commences, which makes a nice change to my usual pre date routine. This consists of me sitting at my desk an hour after all my colleagues have gone home, refreshing and re-refreshing my Facebook browser whilst helping myself to Desk Neighbours’ secret collection of Snack A Jack’s. At dinner, my friends take it in turns to launch themselves into a self-perpetuating chaos theory about how bad the commencing evening will probably be, and wondering how on earth I managed to convince them into such an activity. I’ll hasten to point out that Audrey’s initial horror at learning I’d signed her up was fairly short lived; twenty minutes after receiving my text she messaged me to ask which new Net-a-porter outfit she should wear for the occasion. We’re a fickle bunch, us women. After a free half chicken and spicy rice at Nandos, (who needs a man when you have a loyalty card for discounted poultry?) we head to Adventure Bar to meet our three Prince Charmings. After a flurry of introductions and some rather flattering second glances we settle down to get to know each other. On first impressions, our fellas seem nice enough. Two of them work in investment banking, the other for a start-up. Whilst I’m open minded about modern day occupations in general, the notion of working for a start up always seems questionable to me. Most start-ups on first launch consist of either trying to find a premise within which to start-up, or simply working from home as neither party can afford to get one. (It would therefore be safe to assume that working for a start up translates as sitting at home in your pyjamas from nine to five every day of the week. Or that, working for a start-up essentially translates as ‘post student life without a real job.’) Whilst the group chatted away I couldn’t help but smile at the seemingly total lack of pressure involved in the group-dating scenario. Why would anyone bother with a one on one situation ever again? Here I was, in the chatty comfort of five other individuals; the pressure was off and the success of the evening no longer rested on my, and another creatures,’ shoulders. I could quite literally sit in silence for the remainder of the evening and no one would really have batted an eyelid. No fake dead-relative calls had had to be arranged as an ‘in case of emergency’ get-out clause. The weight of expectation was lifted, and the evening was generally admin-free. I sipped my drink and took a quick scan of the table to see who out of the six of us may or may not be hitting it off. My friend Audrey seemed taken by the chap to her left, who was, despite his droopy left eyelid, vaguely attractive. Rachel was chatting animatedly across the table to the start up guy Steven, sat to my left. From their body language and locked intensity of engagement, it was quite clear that no third party member would ever be allowed to permeate their conversation. That left Richard, the quieter (and in my eyes, more attractive) of the three who was sitting between both Rachel and Steven, with an uncomfortable expression across his face, shooting ‘please help me expressions’ in my direction, as if to emphasise his desire to avoid the heated sexual ‘frisson’ emanating from his two companions. I smiled at him and leant back in my seat, safe in the knowledge that this evening was far from the disaster I’d worried it would be. After an hour my friends and I head off to the ladies room – a mass exodus designed solely with the intention of gossiping about the evening so far and assess who of the six fancies who. Audrey, predictably, is rather taken with Droopy Lid, whilst Rachel is quick to point out that Steven has already asked her for her number, as if justifying the intention to make him her property for the evening. I for one feel quite happy talking to Richard for the remainder of the evening; the only member of the party that I even slightly fancy. As we re-apply our lipstick in the bathroom mirror I can’t help but notice the convenience of the situation - my only trepidation in organising a group date with my friends was the potential worry that all three of us would end up fancying the same guy. I always fail to remember how completely opposite people’s tastes can be. I cast a quick mind back to the dating histories of both Rachel and Audrey. Whilst Rachel had always had a thing for tall, scruffy, dangly blokes, Audrey had a great penchant for going after men she knew she couldn’t have. If they weren’t gay, married or in a serious relationship then they were probably of a physical standard so far above her own that she would need a box of magic tricks and a boa constrictor to so much as temporarily harbour their attention. I for one, as we have already ascertained, went solely for the mean, emotionally unstable business types. A sort that Rachel would claim to be ‘cold’ and that Audrey would probably dismiss for being single. We traipse back to the table and a significant amount of re-shuffling ensues. Audrey dives back in to her seat beside Droopy, who is predictably now far less responsive to her advances and has actually resorted to a banterous Whatsapp conversation on his iPhone in replacement. I can just make out the name of the contact he is messaging. Whilst it feels too disrespectful to re-iterate, I can only imagine that, from the gravitas of the title, she’s reasonably well endowed and very... energetic. Meanwhile Rachel and Steven are hitting it off and have shuffled up to the end of the table for more privacy. I see Rachel out of the corner of my eye, tossing her head and laughing at Stevens’ every other word. The words in question make up the story of his commute to work that day; none of them are particularly funny nor do they justify such an animated reaction. After a while, Droopy suggests we re-locate to a bar round the corner – presumably to meet up with his amply endowed and energetic Whatsapp friend, so the six of us down what’s left of our drinks and make our way into the outside world. Rachel and Steven are at this point actually holding hands as they sashay along the pavement. It’s a move that I personally find weird for a first date for the simple reason that, when you meet someone for the first time, you really have no way of knowing where their hands have been. As we approach the bar, Droopy starts to slow in his steps and announces that, whilst he’s had a terrific evening, he now needs to go and meet a ‘friend’ for a ‘thing’ that is ‘urgent.’ I cast a quick glance at Audrey, who looks utterly crestfallen at the idea of another man slipping from her pincer like grasp. As he makes his way to leave I have a horrible feeling that she might actually run after him. Thankfully she doesn’t and instead turns her attention to the bar, where she remains, locked in a painfully loud conversation with the man next to her about the emotional instability of single life. Rachel and Steven are also at the bar, pushed up against each other in a tight embrace. Steven is winding his index finger round and round a lock of Rachel’s hair. The sight is nauseating yet I feel somewhat responsible for letting their relationship get to this stage. Richard remains glued to my side, sipping his drink a little too eagerly, clearly operating under the assumption that, as my dear friend is a safe bet, I will be too. I tell Richard I need some air and take my drink outside onto the balcony. Literally seven seconds later Richard appears by my side, armed with more drinks and a cheeky smile that suggests that he thinks he knows where the evening is headed. I don’t really have the heart to tell him otherwise. We continue chatting in the cool evening air, before sharing a quick yet fairly energetic snog, pushed up against a very cold concrete tub of geraniums in the corner of the balcony. As first kisses go it’s fairly uncomfortable and not really worth the agonising pressure emanating from my shins that are pressed on the edge of tub. I pry away, and make some excuse about wanting to find my friends, but when we return to the bar to reconvene with the group its quite clear that they have already dissipated. I check my phone – there’s a message from Rachel informing me that she’s decided to go back to Steven’s house for the night and will be dropping Audrey at her house en route. I tell Richard what has become of our night out and he offers to walk with me back to the tube. Our conversation dries up by the time we reach Embankment and I’m thankful that the sound of the underground trains can officially drown out what’s left of our discussion. Richard asks for my number. I give it to him as I’m too tired to think up an excuse not to, and am also slightly curious to see if he really will get in contact. He messages me just over a week later, asking if I want to meet up again. By this point I have almost lost all memory of meeting him and the idea of texting back seems slightly absurd, like running across the street to say hello to a person you bumped into in a tube carriage once upon a time. I delete his number and never reply. A quick snog against a geranium plant is all well and good, but when it comes to one on one dating, men must learn to be quicker off the bat.

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

Date nine. Ty

A funny situation occurs on Friday night. I am in a bar having a drink with a friend (female, not Tinder companion) and, as we sip our gin and tonics, I become increasingly aware of the fact that, seated either side of us, to both my amusement and dismay, are two Tinder dates. (It’s hard to ascertain if they are absolutely, certainly Tinder dates but due to the visible awkwardness and social contortion of couple A, and heated sexual chemistry yet total unawareness of couple B, it would be safe to assume that these are both online set ups of sorts) I text my friend who I am having drinks with from under the table to inform her of this fact. She texts back, under the table, in agreement and tells me that whilst she believes couple A have no future, couple B certainly seem in for a good time. I text back the word “agree” followed by a winky face. There is really no emoticon in existence cringe-worthy enough to encapsulate the social awkwardness that is Tinder. Thus begins an hour long conversation of snooping and text comments. My friend and I of course continue to chat politely to ourselves, all the while keeping our ears peeled for any awkward conversations from couple A, and any titillating conversation from couple B (they’re on their second bottle of Pinot Grigio by this point, so I for one have only high expectations). I’m particularly intrigued by couple A. Physically they seem a perfect match; equally attractive as each other; boy sports a fashionable balance between Indie student and quirky book reader whilst Girl seems particularly feminine in her style wearing a pale pink chiffon dress that subtly enhances her cleavage without being too threatening at the same time. The pace and style of their conversation however is utterly flawed. They continue to both mishear and misunderstand each other. He asks her if she has ever been to Bristol. She tells him that she went there once and that the beach “was lousy.” He looks puzzled. Eventually it unfolds that she had thought he had said “Brighton” not “Bristol” So then they discuss Brighton. Girl likes Brighton because it reminds her of Berlin. Boy looks confused then nods slowly, like an automaton, in agreement. It is blindingly obvious both to Girl and myself that Boy has never set foot in Berlin and that his acceptance of this (actually fairly inaccurate) comparison bears no real gravitas in the conversation. I turn my head sideways and listen in on couple B. Girl has clearly hit the Pinot harder than Boy; her chest is flushed and she’s gesticulating wildly over a funny story that happened to her a very, very long time ago in a nightclub far, far away. Boy is losing interest in the conversation, and is clearly keen to turn the direction of the evening away from the bar we’re sitting in and closer towards his apartment. I can almost hear his inner thoughts whirring around like cogs in a machine, as he tries to work out how and when he can broach the subject of their going back to his place for the duration of the evening. I look at Girl. She seems fun. Her nightclub story suggests that she’s a little thick, but also quite laddish in a semi-charming, fun sort of way that makes certain guys relax as it helps them know they’re in the presence of a low maintenance girl. I decide there and then that I actually quite like her, and hope for her sake that his sexual deliverance later that night is of a satisfactory standard or above. As Girl continues her not so funny story, I see Boy occasionally moving his hand towards his groin and itching. The gesture is suggestive of a sexual disease, (crabs perhaps?) and I find myself also wishing for Girls’ sake that she has the foresight to use protection later in the evening. My female friend companion whom I’m drinking with of course still exists at this point. As we continue to chat mid-eavesdrop, she announces that she went on a Tinder date last week, and that the date went well, (he took her for dinner at Duck and Waffle of all flashy places) but that the boy in question inextricably reminded her of her ex boyfriend so she started to get a little freaked out. “It was so weird!” she exclaimed. “It was like having dinner with Arthur all over again.” I nod in a mature and understanding way, and hasten to point out that, perhaps, that is simply the type of boy that she attracts, and that whilst things with Arthur didn’t work out, many of his qualities made them a good match. She shudders and tells me that she found the whole thing too weird and simply couldn’t get her head around the fact that she was on a date with someone she meant through an iPhone application. “It’s all so formulated!” she tells me. “What would I tell our children if it worked out? Well Mummy was single, and Daddy was horny – and that’s how we met on an iPhone dating app!” She tells me that she misses the old fashioned way of dating – meeting people at random on nights out in London. Through friends. Through work parties. Through unsolved crimes and muggings. I hasten to remind her that I myself had both met and dated people ‘the old fashioned way’ and that this method didn’t make for meeting any better type of man than you could find on Tinder. One guy whom I met in a bar in Kings Cross was, it turned out, ten years older than me, (an instant warning sign that I failed to detect) and who told me, three months into the relationship told me that he suffered from extreme “issues” both emotional and physical, and that I shouldn’t “expect too much” in dating him. My naivety at first actually convinced me to believe that this honest confession was the sign of an evolved, highly tuned man: a man who knew his limits and boundaries within a relationship, and who was simply trying to be honest about the sort of person that he was. I rode high on a wave of falsely perceived emotional intelligence, presuming that I had identified a higher level of human than my friends University relationships could allow. That is until it got to the point where he wasn’t able to get it up in bed anymore. I suddenly realised that his summarising phrase of “not to expect too much” was actually to be taken literally. After an embarrassing cover-up (where he actually had the audacity to blame my physical appearance for his shortcomings) he promptly stopped replying to my texts. After two weeks of silence I could only presume that we were no longer an item. As my friend and I finish up our drinks and telepathically wave farewell to couples A and B, I feel despondent. Firstly because I now have no way of knowing what will happen later in these peoples’ nights and, secondly, because a small part of me agrees wholeheartedly with my friend’s opinion of dating today. It is a sad state of affairs when a generation of youngsters (and oldsters) are forced to rely on a dating application in order to meet new people. I sigh heavily and think back to the works of Austen, where potential male suitors would match eyes with a lovely young lady across a candlelit dancefloor, and be immediately touched by her “fair graces” and heart bosom. After exchanging petty small talk for several hours, and trying not to graze elbows for fear of public accusations of indecency, they would begin to waltz until the early hours of the morning, as members of the party would comment on their “handsomeness of movement” and gait, or such. After more dancing and talks about tea and walking and sewing, the lady would return to her vast family estate, clutching a flower or some other wee object, climb into bed and re-live the magic of the evening. Nowadays, after meeting someone on a night out, we simply clamber into bed, both fully clothed and inebriated, and can only exchange the romantic tale with a hangover cure and our housemates, whilst throwing up in the downstairs toilet the next morning. Ah, the good old days of courtship, how they have been lost to us… As we walk home I tell my friend that I have another Tinder date tomorrow evening. She looks at me like I’m crazy, eyebrows raised, and mutters something excruciatingly patronising, about how people playing with matches often get burned. I laugh the comment aside and tell her that, at the end of the day, we can all expect to learn something from the people we meet in life. Of course, if I’ve learnt anything from meeting my previous Tinder dates, it is simply that I shouldn’t have bothered to meet any of them in the first place… Tomorrow evening arrives quickly. I am supposed to be meeting Ty, date eight, for a drink in Holborn at a bar he found and seemed very eager to try. As the fated hour draws closer I realise how unenthusiastic I feel at the thought of meeting this guy, but the date was scheduled three days ago and the last thing I want to do is appear like a flake, in a world full of flakes. (One guy on Tinder actually had the nerve to cancel on me a mere ten minutes before we were supposed to be meeting. His text message excuse, about his grandmother having been suddenly struck down by a DLR train, was so utterly implausible that I had a half a mind to copy it out and post it on my Facebook wall for entertainment. And this precise segment about him in this article is, ironically, longer than the time we never spent together in real life.) I find Ty standing at the bar, with two cocktails in hand. We exchange a friendly greeting. The cocktail in his left hand, he says is for me; a kind thought in theory, only slightly ruined by the fact that he’s already very evidently drunk out of it and left me with a beverage that’s three quarter’s full. My mind immediately wanders to the severe lack of height bestowed upon this man. He is, regrettably, a good two inches shorter than me. Given that I’m in flat shoes there’s really no way of remedying the situation. I can only proceed to feel sad and sorry for myself, whilst taking comfort in the remaining three quarters of my drink. As we make our way to a table nearby (his lack of height of course far less apparent when sat down) I realise that Ty happens to be one of the most arrogant, irritating people that I have ever had the misfortune to meet. Both on Tinder and in real life. Firstly because he makes a very obvious point of trying to get me as plastered as possible. After I finish my first cocktail he immediately orders me another drink – a triple gin and tonic- without so much as asking me what beverage I would like, whilst remarking in a semi saracastic manner that I need to “loosen up.” I feel men can often mistake the phrase “loosen up” for the actual meaning of “take your shirt off.” He then proceeds to accidentally-on-purpose- graze my leg several times. I feel my grip tighten on my glass. Ty epitomises the irritating, sleazy Essex boy type that girls will forever be unfortunate enough to be bothered by on nights out. His manner is overbearing and he seems to have stupidly taken me for some sort of dumb object; the type who will spread her legs at the end of a night, simply because a man bought her several rounds of drinks first. I feel confused. Ty had seemed so nice and obliging in our Tinder conversations. True, we hadn’t indulged in a particularly long conversation but he’d seemed fairly interesting and interested in what I’d had to say and had asked all sorts of questions about my family, upbringing, job and future travel plans. The triple drink arrives. I decide then and there that I want to utterly ruin things for Ty for the evening. I push the drink to one side, and tell him (totally straight-faced) that I’m not much of a drinker due to a strongly religious, Catholic upbringing but that I don’t want to let my conservative upbringing stand in the way of his alcohol consumption for the night. Ty looks at me like I’ve just told him I’m a man and asks me, with a deeply shocked expression, why I had ever decided to go on Tinder if I wasn’t up for having a good time. I don’t really have an answer for that, but garble some crap about wanting to get to know “all of God’s fair creatures”. I’m itching to drink my drink to get the date over and done with, but of course, due to my fake Catholic upbringing I can’t. So, Annoyingly I sit and wait as Ty spends the next thirty minutes drinking my triple G&T followed by his triple G&T, before eventually calling it a night. I get home thirty minutes later only to realise that I have missed the new season episode of The Mindy Project on 4OD. I pull myself upstairs where I fall into bed, fully clothed, and fall straight to sleep.

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

Date eight. Ronald.

A few days later, I decide it might be time to put Tinder on hold and channel my energy into more worthwhile activities. After all, I live in one of the most exciting cities in the world and have an unlimited supply of sights and cultural resources at my fingertips. Surely pursuing those pleasures would be a better use of time than checking in and out of a dating site? Instead of flicking through men over android, I could be visiting a museum or sampling cheese at a local farmers market. Perhaps, instead of mourning single life and its absence of emotional and physical intimacy, I could embrace the time I have to myself, and use it to reconnect to who I am and what I like. So that Saturday morning, I get up early and head to Borough market. A bit of pastry and bread sampling never hurt anyone at the best of times and surrounding oneself with delicious food is certainly the most effective way to forgive and forget past dating grievances. As I head to the market I do a quick mental calculation in my head and realise that in the last week alone, I’ve spent 9 hours looking through Tinder. I’m shocked and ashamed at the thought. That’s 9 hours of my life that I’ll never get back. I think of all the things I might have achieved had I put those 9 hours to better use. I could have started learning a language! Admittedly in 9 hours I wouldn’t have got very far, but dammit I could have made a start. Disgruntled at my own foolishness, I come out into Borough Market and head straight for the pate counter. There’s a lovely Northerner of a lad who sells mushroom pate every Saturday and his cheery personality and enthusiasm for life in general, and mushrooms in particular, is utterly infectious. I need some of his hearty enthusiasm today. (The fact that he also happens to be tall, attractive, pleasant to talk to and skilled in the ability to fashion rich, moreish pate with his own bare hands, is in no way my chief motivation in speaking to him.) As I push my way through the crowds of food enthusiasts, milling from juice bar to grocery section, chorizo hashes and bacon baps in hand, I am suddenly struck with a realisation. Borough market is literally heaving with attractive men. Single or not, there’s no denying that any London location selling copious amounts of cooked meat during weekends will attract more than its fair share of testosterone, but at Borough market it seems that every other male specimen is in their twenties, well dressed and incredibly dashing. I haven’t seen this many Barbour jackets heaving in and out of a confined space since I attended the Rugby 7’s last year. I cast a glance in the direction of Mushroom Pate man and let out a sigh. He’s already dogged by customers, most of them, unsurprisingly, female. Never has mushroom pate been so on ‘mode’ and I can’t help feeling slightly disappointed. I decide to go back later when the rush has died down, and when the food items might possibly be discounted. I move again through the throng, being elegantly bumped on more than one occasion by a pushy Scottish woman behind me, who loudly complains about the dearness of the beetroots at the vegetable stall. I feel my face twitch with irritation. There’s nothing worse than non-Londoners coming to London and complaining about the expense of our city. Yes little Scottish Lady, we all know London is expensive – it’s the small price we pay for living in such a wonderfully diverse and stimulating capital. I bet the beetroots in Scotland are tuppence for twelve. But will you enjoy eating them on the edge of your Scottish hilltop, looking out at a dense smog with Arctic winds railing around you whilst you try to find Wifi signal with more than one bar of connection, so that you can speak to someone (anyone!) on social media and tell them about the joy of finding cheap beetroots? Probably not. I grab a latte at the Monmouth coffee shop and stand on the pavement sipping slowly. I soon realise most of the people standing beside me are couples. From my age or older; I’m almost surrounded. The majority of the men are indeed wearing Barbour jackets, and whilst being devilishly handsome, are seemingly taken. I sigh inwardly and take another sip of coffee. How wonderful it would be to have a significant other to take me to Borough Market on Saturdays. Someone who can share my enthusiasm for mushroom pate, and who won’t judge me for returning to the brownie stall every eight minutes to nonchalantly munch on samples. I can feel my fingers itching towards my phone – my Tinder prince could be just a swipe away…. I meet Ronald at Holborn tube station the next day. We’re meeting at the Hunterian museum, because Ronald is new to living in London, loves museums and has never been. I don’t rush to point out that I’ve been living in the city for 23 years and have never even heard of the Hunterian until now. I have chosen my clothes for todays’ date very carefully. Rather than making a substantial effort to look tailored and manicured, I instead opt for my typical weekend gear of comfy jeans, Keds and a loose fitting top. After countless dates and countless disappointments, it now seemed a shame wasting too much makeup on somebody I’ve never met. Besides, if a man can accept you at your casual worst, it’s a promising start. As I approach Holborn tube, Ronald is already there waiting for me and an awkward minute ensues as I make my way towards him, smiling and waving, waving and smiling, the approach to get to him taking far longer than expected… The nearer I get, the more I can discern that Ronald is sadly not quite as attractive as he was in his photos. Damn you Tinder gods.... I eventually reach the man and lean in for a polite kiss on the cheek. He leans in for a hug. We fumble. It’s irritatingly awkward. Curse the confusion of blind date greetings. From now on I shall keep a wide berth and extend my hand rigidly for a handshake only. None of this “Do we, don’t we lean in for a kiss” business, life is too short. “Hi” he says, in an excited voice. “Hi,” I smile “It’s nice to meet you. I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” As we exchange small talk on the way to the museum, I can’t help feeling deflated by Ronald’s appearance. I start to wonder how I measure up to my Tinder photos in real life. Am I prettier? Do I look the same? Do I look worse? I’m tempted to ask Ronald but I realise I probably wont get an honest answer. The museum proves to be incredibly interesting and entirely inappropriate for a first date, for it turns out the Hunterian is a surgeons’ exhibit of gooey and unattractive bodily artifacts, dating back from the 17th century and beyond. Baby vertebrae are stretched out in jars and impressed in metal casings as far as the eye can see. Detailed pictures of bewailing male victims lying on stretches with metal hooks reaching into their urethras (a sure fire method for removing kidney stones in the medieval ages apparently) adorn the central walls. We see eyeballs preserved in goo, and noses (still with nostril hairs) floating in long glass beakers. It is, in short, the least sexual, least romantic environment for a date, saving perhaps prison. Twenty minutes in, and I am far from having a terrific time, although the museum itself proves very interesting. As Ronald and I discuss the fundamental flaws of 15th century caesarean section procedures, I cannot help but notice the small patches of dried white spit that have assembled along the corners of his mouth. Yet before I can so much as offer him a tissue, Ronald turns his attention towards a stretch of placenta floating in a glass vase and begins an animated discussion about how closely it resembles a pack of Sainsbury’s Yorkshire sausages. Golly gosh, Ronald, you’re right – I’ll never look at placenta in the same way again! Thank you for that. With all the oohing and ahhing at glass jars and other ugly objects, Ronald and I actually share relatively little information about each other, and, two hours later when we eventually leave the exhibit, leaving no jar or gel vacuum unobserved, I realise that I have learnt absolutely nothing about my date. Like movie outings and concert trips, museum exhibits seem a sure fire way to keep conversation at bay. I begin to wonder if Ronald only invited me along to this museum trip because he wanted some company for the afternoon. Perhaps he pedals his Tinder profile along simply to make friends with people whom he can share cultural (and albeit creepy) experiences. I feel weirdly elated at the idea of making a good male friend through Tinder dating. I have a sudden image of Ronald and myself, going on holiday with our future spouses, the four of us laughing at the fact that, whilst romance wasn’t on the cards between us that Sunday afternoon, a deep, meaningful and platonic friendship was more than we could have bargained for. I preoccupy myself happily with this thought all the way to the tube. That is until we arrive at the station and Ronald instantly places his arm around mine, and leans in for a kiss. I move my head back with reflex speed quicker than a stray cat darting a car, and garble some excuse about not kissing on a first date. (Sheer bollocks of course but what else can I say? “Whilst I’d love to be friends, I find you incredibly physically unappealing and would rather not touch you?”) Ronald asks me if we can go on another date. I move my head in a gesture that hopefully appears indecipherable as either a nod or a shake and tell him that we should certainly keep in touch. And I wish him to “take care.” It doesn’t get more politically correct than that. I return home to find my mum in the kitchen, making an apple crumble. She makes a “thumbs up – thumbs down” motion at me in question of how the date went. I crinkle my nose at her to express my total lack of enjoyment over the experience. She nods with understanding and tells me there’s an unopened bottle of wine in the fridge, should I need it. As I sit down later that night nursing my glass of Chardonnay along to a repeat episode of Made in Chelsea, I realise my life would be far more interesting and exciting if it were to take place in a TV show. I would be told where to stand and what to do, who to fancy, who to ask out, who to have sex with and who to avoid. The stony silences would get tiring after a while but you’d never be short of someone to throw a drink at. I mute Made in Chelsea and call my Dad. A faint shuffling sound resonates down the phone for several seconds before he answers. He asks why I’m calling him at such a late hour, has something bad happened to me – physical or otherwise? I politely tell him that it’s only eight thirty on a Sunday night (is that late for the over fifties?) and that yes, something bad has happened; my hopes and dreams for companionship are being slowly thwarted by the online dating Gods, and that he should learn not to expect grandchildren from me. Perhaps it’s paranoia, but I can almost imagine him nodding down the phone, as if he too agrees that the very thought of my producing grandchildren is by this point quite out of the question. I continue along this wave of conjecture and hasten to add that any money he had earmarked for my wedding should instead be invested or given to charity. I hear him laugh and snort with great energy down the phone and he tells me that if I think he’s making a financial contribution to my wedding of any kind, I’ve got another thought coming to me. We argue for several minutes about why he would deny me this traditional privilege (my fears and anxieties over dying alone seemingly vanquished.) At this point my Dad tells me to stop being petulant, and that I have no right to call him in the middle of the night (!) simply to start arguments. So we agree to disagree on the fictional wedding issue and I hang up the phone more irritated than before. I turn off the TV and head upstairs. Before I reach my bedroom I receive a text from Ronald asking if I would like to go to a concert with him on Thursday night. The familiar wave of nausea and guilt creeps over me as, once again, I must tell a kind thoughtful man that I have no intention of seeing him again. The wave of guilt stays with me until bedtime and I vow to myself that, fifteen years from now, if I am still single, I will track Ronald down and ask him if he wants to give things another go.

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

Date Seven. Luke.

However.... After vowing never to go on another Tinder date, I decide to go on another Tinder date. After all, no one ever got anywhere in life by quitting, and isn’t perseverance the key to success? I promise myself that this time things will be different. I will choose my victim carefully. Screen them for several days. Run a security check. Do some background digging on their work history before accepting any offer of a date. And so I settle on Luke who, judging from the backdrops of his Tinder pictures is certainly, and without question taller, than me. (There’s one of him standing on a cycle trail next to a bicycle and his shoulders reach far beyond the handlebars.) He is also, thankfully, genuinely attractive and, still seems to be so; I actually ask him to add me on Facebook so that I can stalk his current photos and make sure that they really are current. (Perhaps from an outsider’s perspective this seems desperate, but desperate times call for stark-raving-bonkers measures.) Irritatingly, Luke arranges, and then re-arranges the date several times which, let’s be honest, is never a promising start. (How many women is he juggling around me, I wonder.) But, eventually, we find a date to meet, on Wednesday night at a bar near St Paul’s. I get to the bar and find Luke already there, sipping a G&T and wearing a suit. Whilst I realise every man looks better in a suit, I am immediately struck by how attractive Luke is. No wonder he had to rearrange our date so many times; this guy must generate a lot of interest! As he gives me a friendly peck on the cheek, my arm accidentally brushes against his and I feel a delightful quantity of muscle protruding through his work shirt. So far, so good. We sit down with our drinks and start to chat, but as soon as Luke opens his mouth, the entire date takes a turn for the worst because, despite his impeccably manly appearance, Luke’s personality is densely immature. The guy is three years older than me, but from the way he acts you wouldn’t think him a day over seventeen. (My cousin Rob has just approached his final year of GCSE’s. He plays on his Wii religiously and laughs every time anyone says the word “bra.” Even he could give Luke a run for his money in the maturity stakes.) I grimace, as Luke carries on rambling, telling me some story that he at least finds entertaining. He laughs and sips, nodding along to his story that I for one can barely follow. It doesn’t make sense. And it’s so crude. I’m all for a bit of comedy but toilet humour isn’t really my thing. And on a date? What’s sexy about poo? But it isn’t just the toilet humour. Luke laughs at odd things. And when I say odd things, I mean things that aren’t even funny. Example One. He asks me what I do for a living and I tell him, “Advertising”. “Jokes!” he says, and bursts out laughing. I ask him what’s funny about Advertising. “You know” he says “Just stuff on TV. It’s all so funny. Such jokes. They’re jokers.” I think about it. Are ads really that funny? The last ad campaign my company produced focussed on the illegal rhino trade in South Africa. Is that really so funny? I suppose Luke would think it was. I ask Luke about his job and he tells me – without laughing this time – that he works as a management consultant and, whilst really enjoying the corporate life, doesn’t see it as a long-term career. I ask him what he would rather do instead and he tells me that he wants to travel the world and live on a beach in Hawaii teaching surf lessons in his spare time. I politely refrain from saying that that career sounds far less long term than the one he’s already got but decide to stop myself (who am I to piss across someone else’s career path?) and we continue to make small talk about lots of different things that aren’t particularly interesting or relevant. Regrettably, having grown up amongst pretty well educated, quick-witted guys I have little patience for men who don’t observe a certain like-minded intelligence. I’m not saying I need to date a rocket scientist who dabbles as a stand up comedian in his spare time, but a man needs to provide a large degree of verbal stimulation to hook my interest. My father, for all his oddities and attachment issues towards his dog, is one of the smartest men I know, my brother being a close second. And these are the men I grew up with, retailing clever stories and anecdotes around the dinner table. Suffice it to say, I can’t be doing with stupid men, and I certainly can’t be doing with stupid men who are also lazy and want to give up well-paid, respectable careers in favour of hobo-surf lifestyles that wont bring in enough money to pay for a weekly shopping trip to Lidl. I’m just saying. As the night goes on however, the drunker I become, and I find myself growing more and more tolerant of Luke’s grating immaturity. My lips soon curl up at the stupidest, most mundane comments and I realise that this is probably how clever working women end up knocked up by unemployed fat blokes. You see them sometimes, on holidays or in the park – with a culture gap between them as wide as the Sahara desert. She has Shilac nails and an IQ of 3000. He claims weekly benefits and has an addiction to The Today Show. As the evening progresses, I actually find myself laughing along to an animal meme on Luke’s phone. It’s of a squirrel, water skiing, his paws tightly gripping the handlebars. (“However does it manage to hold on to the ski bar without thumbs”, I ponder to myself happily in my gin-induced state. “Clearly some type of animal sorcery is at work…”) As I get drunker, Luke appears far more attractive a specimen. And suddenly, mid chortle over something else stupid, I have a surprisingly lucid thought. Perhaps I have been going about this Tinder thing the wrong way. Every time I go on a date I hope that I’ll be meeting the love of my life. A companion with whom I can share my hopes and dreams. And of course, that never happens. It suddenly dawns on me that a more realistic approach would be to use Tinder as a device to meet a fun guy whom I can casually date and have sex with until Mr Right eventually actually along. Luke is certainly far from boyfriend material - he’s flaky, chaotic, and, judging by his career dreams, utterly irresponsible. When at the bar earlier paying for drinks, he fumbled around in his pocket trying to place his card and a small handful of hash actually floated out of his jacket pocket onto the floor. (Surely that’s the last thing you want falling out of a potential boyfriends’ pocket. Even condoms would be better for at the very least they imply responsibility.) But, despite these shortcomings, Luke is attractive. And kind. And fun. And, in comparison to the grand spectrum of men that exist out there in the world, really pretty harmless. So I decide to try something totally and completely out of my character. I decide to embark on a no strings attached relationship.... Except that, after deciding to embark on a no strings attached relationship, the option to do so with Luke is redundant, because Luke does not contact me again after our date. I wait an entire week and hear nothing. I vent my frustration on my friend at work over lunch. “It’s just not fair!” I yelp. “All I wanted was a bit of a fling... Now I can’t even have that.” “To be fair,” my friend Alice interjects, “You’re not really the type of girl to have a casual shag. I mean, you’re very sensitive. You would only end up getting hurt.” She pats my arm in a consoling fashion, which of course as the sensitive soul that I am, I interpret as patronisation. “I can too have a casual shag,” I reply indignantly, and perhaps a little too loudly, as I see several members of the production department look up at me over their salads, eyebrows raised. “Anyway,” I continue, now a few decibels lower, “It’s so totally insulting. I mean I was drunk. I was laughing along to his animal memes. And I touched his arm. He had the green light to contact me again. I couldn’t have done more to look like a – like a loose women if I’d tried!” “Loose women!” Alice snorts so hard a small piece of celery shoots out of her mouth on to the table. “Christ.” I sink back in my chair inconsolably. “I can’t even get a meaningless shag, let alone a boyfriend!” I cry. “What will I do now?” “Self service?” Alice interjects helpfully. I am less than amused.

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

My Dad calls over the weekend, asking me if I would like to meet him for a coffee on Saturday by my local high street. He tells me he doesn’t feel we’ve spent enough father-daughter time together recently (his words exactly). I of course accept the offer, how refreshing it is to a) get a free coffee and b) spend time in the company of a man I’ve actually met before. 

So on Saturday morning, I head off for my date with Dad. Regrettably Dad has decided to bring Girlfriend’s Labrador ‘Shiny’ along with him, which is slightly problematic for a number of reasons. Firstly because the dog suffers from acute separation anxiety, which means it simply cannot bear to be left on its own in the car or tied to a lamppost, like other normal dogs, for more than seventeen seconds. Secondly because my father suffers from acute separation anxiety from the dog, meaning he cannot bear to leave the dog tied to a lamppost or in the car, like normal dog owners, for more than seventeen seconds. And thirdly because there are no coffee shops in the local area that allow dogs onto the premises, which leads beautifully into the fourth problem - it’s a sunny day, and every outside table in the vicinity is taken. 

Being unable to part with Shiny for more than the length of time it would have taken me to drink a latte, my Dad offers instead to get me a takeaway coffee and walk me around the block a few times, dog in tow, whilst I drink it. Thus would conclude our father daughter time. 

 Perhaps the lousy Tinder dates I’ve been forced to endure in recent weeks have frayed my patience. Perhaps I am just tired. Either way I find myself shouting at my Dad in the middle of the street for making such an insensitive and “provoking” (my words) suggestion. I continue irrationally onwards, the anger from the previous weeks no doubt fuelling my energy for debate. I accuse him of loving his dog more than me (a slightly weird and irrational accusation one might argue) and that if he were to find Shiny and myself hanging off a cliff, on the verge of death, he would jump to save Shiny’s life over my own. The fact that my father actually appears to consider this statement before telling me that I’m being ridiculous does little to calm my rage. 

Perhaps, whilst I cannot play the part of jealous girlfriend I must instead play jealous daughter. How superficial and silly my life has become. (Although I must point out, my Dads’ dog has had it in for me from the offset. Whenever I visit my Dads’ house it takes every opportunity it can think of to step on me, bite me, gnaw at my shoes or, as was the case last time I visited, actually come up onto the sofa and butt in between my Dad and I when we’re sitting next to each other watching TV. Seriously. There she was, pushing in our intimate moment with her big snout and parking herself firmly between us so that my Dad inevitably ends up giving her a cuddle over I. On that occasion I actually told my Dad that I firmly believed Shiny did what she did deliberately. He looked and me and tutted, “She’s a dog, Sophie.” He didn’t believe me, and I genuinely saw a wave of self-satisfaction pass over Shinys’ face at this point. And I thought a new girlfriend would be a problem! How very wrong I was…) 

 Anyhow, flash forward to coffee and there I am, on the high street, ranting at my father, whilst Shiny sits happily at his feet, clearly content in the knowledge that she is getting the love and affection she deserves from the one man in her life and mine. It suddenly occurs to me - if my own father is capable of choosing a dog over me, surely I have zero chance of ever finding true love and loyalty in a sexual partner? With this thought in my mind, I finish ranting. 

My Dad apologises and says he isn’t being fair and so promises that instead of going round the block a few times, he can walk me all the way back to my front door. It’s an eight minute walk and hardly a fair parley but by this point my coffee is getting cold and, as pride takes up more energy than defeat, I accept. As we walk, he asks me how my Internet dating is coming along. I shrug, and tell him it could be better. (“It could be better” being the operable phrase for of course, if it were going better, I would not still be doing it.) 

We get to my door. My Dad hugs me goodbye and promises that, next time, we’ll do something a lot more fun. How he hopes to beat a takeaway Americano and a thirteen-minute catch up is beyond me. Perhaps he’ll throw in a croissant next time. As I head through the door, I realise two things. One, that my coffee is stone cold and no longer drinkable. Two, that I am an intelligent, partially-successful, partially attractive 22 year old who is jealous of her fathers’ dog. Even at my current life juncture, this is a new low.  

If only it couldn’t get any lower…. 

 The following day (Monday) I have another date, this time with a chap named Christian. Christian is 27 and works as an architect. We’d been messaging back and forth for over a week and, after the fairly underwhelming dates that I’ve had up until this point, it takes me several days of consideration before accepting his offer of a date Christian is an architect. He asks me to meet him at the Southbank as he’s currently working on a building further down near the Oxo Tower. 

As I arrive at the terrace bar, Christian is already at the table, sitting on a barstool. He remains seated at my approach, casually swigging his beer and shakes my hand over the table in a slightly awkward, business like fashion. 

First impressions, however, are surprisingly good. Christian is even more attractive in person than he is in his Tinder pictures and as soon as we start chatting, the whole thing feels fantastically easy, as if I’ve just met up with a long lost friend. We start chatting about home and families. Christian tells me that he is the youngest of three siblings, and that his father re-married when he was only 12, leaving him with four other half siblings, all competing for his father’s attention. Remembering my recent fight for recognition against Shiny, I feel I can partially sympathise with Christian’s situation. I ask him when his parents’ separated and he tells me that the whole thing fell apart when he was as young as six. Coming from a ‘broken’ marriage myself, I ask him if his parents are still on speaking terms. He shakes his head, and we commiserate over the fact that, despite our better efforts, our parents have lost the ability to exchange pleasantries to each other. 

As a child I must say it was a strange concept to get my head around. After all, one of the first things a parent teaches you in life is to be nice to others, yet there my mum and Dad were casually flinging insults at each other in the parking lot after school… 

We laugh about this, and compare horror stories of divorce. Christian tells me that his graduation lunch was one of the more awkward examples of an ex-couple ignoring each other. His father sat at one end of the table, and his mother at the other. Christian tells me that his parents did not speak to each other for the entire two hours it took them to get through the tasting menu. When his Dad wanted the salt from his ex-wife’s end of the table, he asked Christian to tell his mother to pass it over. 

 I laugh and share my own similarly awkward Graduation story. Terrified at the thought of my parents ending up sat next to each other in the ceremony, I had to email the Faculty Dean in advance and get him to assure me that my parents would not share a pew. I actually went so far as listing my mother under her maiden name, beginning with R, so that (were the seating to be alphabetical) she would be sat as far as humanly possible from my father, whose name begins with B, in the register. 

 After the ceremony however the situation took a turn for the worse; I posed with my mum for photographs, whilst my Dad took a conference call with a client in Hong Kong. My mother then scarpered off to meet her boyfriend in town, whilst my Dad took his conference call and I to lunch. And let me tell you, no swordfish starter goes down well when accompanied with the sounds of an angry Creative Director, shouting abuse down the phone in Chinese from his office in New Kowloon. 

 As Christian and I continue chatting I realise we’ve both been so busy speaking to each other that neither one of us has gone to get another drink. I mention this to Christian and he very politely offers to get us beers. (That he makes no issue over paying for the beverages only further secures my affection for him – whilst I will always offer to pay my way on a date, there’s nothing more impolite than a man who expects you to.) 

 As Christian gets up from his bar stool however, my jaw very nearly drops to the floor. Because, standing up, Christian is about five foot tall. His head barely clears the barstool. I gape in shock as he disappears into the crowd at the bar, a tuft of his hair visibly sticking out at the very same level of the elbow of the businessman standing next to him. I can’t believe it. His torso, from the table at least, seemed perfectly normal. But his legs? His legs must be the problem. Is he a dwarf? How small do you have to be to count as a dwarf in this day and age? It must be a problem – a height like that is cause for concern, a disability in many respects. London is a dangerous place for small people after all. Like when the underground train arrives at the platform and there’s more than a hefty jumping space between it and the carriage door. A little person like Christian would fall straight through that gap! It must be a canyon in his eyes. 

I shiver.  This has all gone horribly, horribly wrong and in one moment my allusion of Christian is shattered. It’s worth pointing out that I myself am far from terrifically tall. At five foot six, I’m taller than the average woman I accept, yet it’s hardly unreasonable for me to desire a man of my height or taller. When Christian returns with the beverages, I smile and try to plunge myself back into the conversation, focussing instead on Christian’s personality over his appearance, but now, sadly, the excitement is gone. I cannot go out with a man of this height. Call me shallow, call me cold hearted, call me anything under the sun; at the end of the day, I have a bottom line, and Christian, poor man, probably wouldn’t even reach it. I try to smile but a knot of emotion is swelling in my stomach. I feel like someone is playing a joke on me. 

Only yesterday I prayed to the Tinder gods to make Christian a nice, funny, attractive date, but of course I failed to specify that I wanted him to reach my eye-line. Is this Tinder-karma? What did I do wrong in a previous life? And what exactly am I meant to take away from this experience? Should I ask all future Tinder dates how tall they are before agreeing to go out with them? Should I put a shortness limit on my profile – “Those under five-five need not reply?” Are you allowed to ask men their height before meeting? Surely it’s the physical equivalent of a guy asking a girl her cup size? It’s rude and ungracious, yet, in some respects, a deal breaker. 

 I remember my friend Will at work telling me that he once met up with a girl from Tinder who turned out to be six foot two. He was utterly shocked when she turned up, yet the girl in question acted like it was no big deal, which hardly seems fair. Surely you would mention physical ‘extremes’ before a date, so as to ensure that you don’t waste your dates’ time? And as a man, wouldn’t you want to find a woman who matches your own physical specifications…? 

 As we sit at the table chatting, I try to focus on Christian’s eyes, his personality, and the fact that he is making me laugh. But as we get up to leave (three hours later; his size is an issue but we’re not short of things to say to each other) he walks very close beside me and I realise that, if he were to try and kiss me, he probably wouldn’t be able to. 

 As we approach Waterloo, I bend down and give him a peck on the cheek and tell him that I had a lovely time. It’s the truth after all, what more can I say? If he were only to grow eight inches, I’d ask him to marry me there and then. 

 By the time I get home, Christian has already sent me a text asking whether I made it home safely. The fact that he has the decency to send me the first date “end of the night-follow through text” of course only adds salt to my wound because the guy is clearly very decent and gentlemanly, on top of being funny, intelligent and kind. Funny, isn’t it? If he were only a foot taller, I’d have given a passionate snog goodbye and spent the journey home wondering what we were going to call our children. 

I text him back to say yes, I got home fine, and that I hope he did too. He asks me if I want to meet up again. I don’t know what to reply so instead stash my phone in my sock drawer and vow to myself never to go on another Tinder date again, the whole process being far more trouble than its worth.

[hownottofindaboyfriend-blog]

When the going gets tough, the tough keep dating.

Despite the disasters I’d so far experienced, I was beginning to get used to Tinder. It was like picking a scab: you know how self destructive it is in the long run, but you keep at it anyway, because it feels weirdly satisfying and hey, it’s more fun than having no scab to play with… 

 And in a truly weird and embarrassing way, Tinder made me feel like I was part of something. A Singletons’ “Culture Club.” A breadth of experience that my coupled friends would never know, asides from the ones who’d sneakily downloaded it onto their Iphones', in an effort to determine just how they measured up to the outside world, and to know just how their sex life would fare if things with their significant other were ever to unravel…

 Wherever my Iphone went, this ‘culture club’, this ‘database’ went with me. A series of “potentials” who roamed the streets day by day, yet lived in my phone, my handbag, my bedside cabinet at night. As ludicrous as it all had become, my romantic side told me that somewhere on that database, lurked Prince Charming. And all I had to do was flick through enough oddballs and meet enough let downs to get to him. Like a totally weird and perverted modern day version of Cinderella. I soon realised that if I were to date all of London, or at least the entire population of Tinder candidates on my phone, then the chances of my meeting Mr Right (or, as I would settle for at this point, Mr Right Enough) would increase quite dramatically. 

If I went on three dates a week, every week for the next 6 months, I could knock through well over a hundred candidates before Christmas. True, the pool didn’t always meet expectation but it certainly dished up a few interesting characters. Why, only this morning a man who claimed to be a professional clown and circus performer had offered to take me on a tour of London on his tricycle. Whilst I wasn’t remotely tempted to accept the offer the point was I’d been asked and had the option. Because, lets face it; before Tinder, I had no options. 

 So when Ben asked me to meet him for a date one bleak and dreary Tuesday I thought, why not? Besides time, energy and sheer self worth, what did I have to lose? Ben apparently works for Transport for London and has been living in the city for several months. And, like myself, Ben works in the East so we agree to meet up one Tuesday night at a pub by the river. They say the presence of natural elements can add romance to any situation and my suggestion to meet at a riverside bar was certainly an attempt to bring some ‘atmosphere’ to our casual meet up. 

Alongside his better than average jawline and dark eyes, Ben’s buzzy, confident chat on Tinder made him seem like a promising candidate. So… Pumped for the date and wearing my best lipstick, I arrive promptly at 7pm in our designated venue. Ben is already there waiting for me. I walk towards him and smile in a friendly fashion, making to kiss him hello on the cheek at the exact same moment that he extends his hand for a handshake. That awkwardness had ensued literally within five seconds of our meeting seems quite appalling, not least because I’d spent most of the day building this guy up quite substantially in my head. 

 Of course reality so rarely measures up to expectation, and my daydreams about Ben TFL were quickly shattered, for Tinder Ben and all his positives in no way shape or form reflected Real Life Ben. Because Real Life Ben was severely, if not excruciatingly, shy. And nervous. And sweaty. And gulp-y. So nervous was he in fact that when I went to shake his hand I could see the beads of perspiration forming along his forehead, dripping down onto his nose as if he’d been caught in some sort of shower. Nevertheless I shake Bens’ hand and smile at him warmly in the hope that smiling might just relax him a little bit, or at the very least stop the sweat beads from gathering so excessively. As we make our way to a table Ben declares that he’s been feeling “nervous” about our date all day. Of course, as all women know, there’s nothing sexier than beginning a blind date with a sweaty nervous man who looks visibly shaken at the prospect of sitting down to a drink with you. I glance at the time on my phone and make a promise to myself to leave before 9. 

 As we sit down to chat I realise Ben’s most obvious flaw is his total inability to relax and stop quaking with fear long enough to create a decent flow of conversation. He’s clearly well educated. He’s attractive. Our previous conversations on Tinder proved that he possesses some semblance of humour. Yet his nervous demeanour utterly overrides every one of these positive traits. His body language and conversation is totally rigid with anxiety and, despite my best efforts, remain so for the duration of our date. 

An hour in and his still terrified expression would suggest that I’m some sort of dangerous criminal, who lured him to a Tinder date under false pretences. At one point, I make a funny remark about bar stools and almost get Ben to emit a laugh. I watch carefully as the sides of his face begin to crease, as if in anticipation of a smile, but before he can audibly express his amusement, he stops himself short, and sort of “swallows” the smile back down, where no doubt it retreats, and turns to dust in the murky abyss that is his inner anxiety. 

 Whilst I completely understand and sympathise with the fact that some people are less outgoing than others, it hardly seems fair to ask someone on a Tinder date, only to sit their visibly shaking at their presence. If you don’t have the emotional and or mental capacity to go on blind dates, don’t go on them. Instead, refrain from internet/blind dating altogether and opt to meet people in safe, nurturing environments, like church fetes and local union meetings. 

I see myself as a fairly nice, relaxing and pleasant person to talk to, yet I have little patience for people who can’t just sit back, relax, and chill-the-fuck-out for long enough to deal with normal, human interaction. We’re sitting down to a friendly drink after all, not planning an attack on NATO. This drink was meant to be fun, and it was his idea to meet in the first place. Desperate situations call for desperate measures and I try to keep the conversation flowing as you would with any tricky dinner guest sat next to you at a party against your will. 

 I ask Ben about his job. He mumbles a few “yes” and “no” statements in response, including (God be praised, it’s a miracle) one whole articulated sentence that he answers whilst dabbing at his forehead with a napkin only twice. Small bits of tissue remain stuck to his forehead in wake of this action. I want to laugh but its too sad an image, like seeing Bambi stuck in a nettle bush or watching Dumbo fly into the rear end of an aeroplane. I ask Ben whether or not he goes on Tinder dates frequently. He shakes his head in a fearful fashion, as if I’ve just asked him whether or not he rapes often, then glances back around his shoulder several times with a vigour that suggests he’s on the lookout for terrorists. Naturally, his obsessive glances provoke my interest - I crane my head around in an effort to spot the potential problem, wherever it might be. At a glance, I see nothing alarming, only fifty other patrons all sat around us, laughing and chatting to the people beside them and generally looking like they’re having a nice time; as should be the case when you’re out and about in a social situation. Glumly, I look down at my half drunk drink and decide that I’m going to have to ditch this guy pretty soon. The time on my stopwatch is ticking and, whilst I don’t have anywhere remotely important to be, I would rather be anywhere in the world than where I am right now. 

 After an hour and forty minutes of polite conversation, I fake a yawn and tell Tom that I’m feeling rather tired and would he mind if we called it a night? Annoyingly Tom lives near London Bridge, which is also on my route home, so we remain trapped in polite conversation for a very slow six stops on the Underground before his exit. I watch Tom plan his escape – his eyes darting from one door to the next as if trying to determine the safer route through the carriage. He leaps off the train with an immediacy that suggests he’s on fire and casts a hand in the air, a goodbye to me, I assume. I take a deep breath and try to relax. So this is what freedom feels like! Watching Ben’s retreating head is certainly the happiest moment of my evening so far. 

Weirdly enough, I get home to find a text from Ben telling me that he had a “really great time” and that he “felt we really got on, should we do it again soon?” I blink back my surprise. Was this text from the same Ben? If that’s him getting on with someone, I hate to think what him not getting on with somebody looks like. Presumably in that instance he just lies down on the floor, in tears, rocking himself to sleep? A week goes by. I conveniently forget to reply to Ben's text.