Dating, Eleven Times Two

So, apparently I’m a record breaker!

Yup, that’s right. A record breaker.

I’ve broken many things in my 32 years, a foot, more iPhone screens than I care to admit, balls, a few hearts, most recently my favourite mug… but today I surpassed myself and broke an actual record:

I went on a date that lasted approximately 43 minutes.

Call Guinness – get this printed in the next edition now. Where’s my award?

I was out of the flat for 2 and a half hours including travel time. You know it’s not a good sign when you stick the tumble dryer on on your way out the door and are back before the end of the spin cycle! Let me lead you guys into this gently, because if I don’t find some humour in the situation then I fear my current quota of ‘just the 2 cats’ will increase somewhat exponentially.

I, like most single thirty-something women, am on a dating app. Just the one mind – my iPhone battery can’t deal with the 3 rows of social media apps on my home screen as it is. I am on Bumble. You know that app where women have to message first? Yeah, it’s not really any better but I point blank refuse to join the soul-destroying diatribe that is Tinder again. Ugh.

Anyway, after matching with an attractive looking Mediterranean type, I bit the bullet and said hello, and after a week of the usual WhatsApp chit-chat that we modern-day singletons have become accustomed to, I met up with… er…let’s call him ‘Brandon’ (his name was not Brandon) in town. He was late (strike one), and yes he’d travelled a fair way to meet up for what was precisely 2 cups of Americano, but he had set out before I’d even jumped in the shower to get ready for said date. When he (eventually) arrived, he was shorter than the angles of his photographs had portrayed him to be (strike two). Now I know this is exceptionally ‘heightist’ (if it’s not already a word, it is now), but this dude was the same size as me. I’m five foot four.


You blokes should have to declare this shit I swear. His carefully selected photographs had me thinking he was at least a 6 footer… oh no my friends. No. He climbed up onto the bar stool (aided only by the same small hop that I myself had adopted) and asked me if I was nervous. What is this – my first day? No, I’m not nervous – the look you see on my face is that of ‘instant NOPE’ not nerves. Fucks sake.

OK, so it wasn’t instant. I decided that this was going nowhere fast after about 3 minutes – which, for me, was actually giving the guy a chance. I kid you not, I had said ‘hmmm’ and ‘oh yeah?’ about 37 times before he let me get a word in edgeways and asked me an actual question (strike three, aaaaaaaand you’re out). Granted the question was technically his second, but it was also this: “Do you want my biscuit, I’m not eating any biscuits or sugar or any shit like that?” This was after I’d virtually inhaled my own foil wrapped stick of concentrated sugary goodness… and I’d only done that to give myself something to do with my mouth! This was closely followed by asking my age (it’s right there on my profile) and then saying “Oh, most women your age are worried about running out of time to start a family.” I mentally facepalmed. I mentally facepalmed HARD.

After coffee number two (I put the biscuit self-consciously to one side this time), I was already day-dreaming about what I was going to have for dinner when I could get a nail appointment in, fuck – even if I’d remembered to switch my hair straighteners off! Whatever was occupying my attention span – it definitely wasn’t whatever was coming out of his mouth. When it was finally my turn to talk, I couldn’t even be bothered to go into detail. The only time I was marginally animated was when talking about Los Angeles, and how I hope to live there one day. He said, “are you planning to go there anytime soon?” Mate, I’ll hop on the next flight if it gets me the fuck out of here!!! You know when Chandler told Janice he was moving to Yemen? I totally get it.

I started making my excuses… like how I was really busy in the upcoming weeks and “how it was only going to get worse”, how I was going to be ‘useless’ for the next two weeks as I’m “doing a Clean 9” (watch this space for updates on that), and how I had “loads of stuff to do this afternoon”. He said “what time do you need to get off? It’s half two now…” I pretended to consider this for the briefest of moments before I begrudgingly said: “about 3 probably…”

“What, in half an hour?” he asked – a look of complete bemusement and shock across his tiny face. “Yes, we still have a little time tho…” (1800 torturous seconds to be exact).

“I’m not your type am I?” He asked.


Sadly, the diplomat in me attempted to make this situation slightly less excruciating than it was rapidly becoming…

“Not really, but I’m glad I met you” (so I know to vet upcoming dates more carefully in future), and “thanks for coming all the way here to see me” (thank fuck I didn’t come to you!)

After mutually deciding that it was best we probably just leave (escape) there and then, he came out with the line that I shall remember him for: “But we’ve been speaking for a week and I only met you an hour ago, this is some kind of a record…”

At this point, I was reaching the limit of my politeness. “I tend to make up my mind fairly quickly, and there’s no point in going on another 2 dates and leading you on now is there?”

He said he was OK… but he forgot to tell his face – which had the same look on it as Leonardo DiCaprio when the winner of ‘Best Actor’ was read out at every single Oscars ceremony pre-2016.

I have never been gladder to leave an establishment in my entire life. I’m sure he is a nice enough bloke, but he most certainly wasn’t the one for me!

(Pocket Watch Image Credit: