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So… online dating

26 Sep

I’m online dating. Yes, I know it’s only been two weeks since I broke up with Jealous Boy, but that relationship had been on its last legs for a while. I’ve enjoyed several bouts of singledom throughout my twenties, relishing the fact that I never had to accommodate my social diary around anyone else’s, apologise for working late or feel guilty for the times when all I wanted to do was Continue reading



26 May

When I moved to Leeds for an awful PR job some years ago, knowing hardly anyone there and being single to boot, I signed up to Guardian Soulmates. I thought it might be a good way to meet new people, find out where the good hang-outs where and maybe even find the man of my dreams. Instead I found Pablo.

Pablo was a mix of Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. He was 32 – five years older than I was at the time – spoke three languages and owned his own home. In his profile picture he was sitting on a beach in a yellow t-shirt, brown-eyed and olive-skinned with an athletic physic and beautiful dark hair long enough to just graze his shoulders. In fact there was just one thing wrong with Pablo: everything on his dating profile was a complete lie.

We spoke a couple of times on the phone before arranging to meet for a drink. So charmed was I by Pablo that I spent longer than usual arranging my hair and picking an outfit, and arrived at our agreed location ten minutes late.

Scanning the bar, I was relieved to find he was also running late as he hadn’t arrived yet either. The bar was in fact empty except for the overweight man with the scruffy hair sitting at the end of the bar. The same man that was now standing to greet me with a sweaty kiss on each cheek.

Real Pablo was not only much paunchier than Pablo-of-the-Internet – and in possession of more chins – but, it later transpired, he was also ten years older (though I could probably have guessed from his hairline). I decided to stay for one drink then make my excuses, yet when he returned from the bar with a bottle of Pino Grigio instead of the small glass I’d asked for, I was too polite to tell him to shove it. I batted off his cringey attempts at flattery and flirtation for A WHOLE HOUR before attempting to take my leave, protesting that I had an early start for work the next day.

“That’s a bit of a brush-off,” he said, a whine creeping into his voice. “I’ve come all the way from Manchester to see you, can’t you at least stay for one more drink?”

I still don’t know how he cajoled me into it, but I agreed to one last glass of wine. However, when he came back from the bar with yet another bottle, I knew it was time to stop playing nice.

“I’m just popping out for a ciggie,” he said (despite the fact that Pablo-of-the-Internet was a non-smoker). “Want to join me?”

“No thanks.” You lying greasy-haired toe-rag. I smiled sweetly, then as soon as he’d disappeared into the beer garden, I grabbed my bag, ran out the front door and jumped into the nearest taxi.

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