Date walks out on rude, disrespectful woman - times they are a changing

I blame post-lockdown giddiness for the fact I’ve fully embraced receiving free breakfast, free lunch and free dinner invitations on blustery, freezing cold terraces across London, where men are paying. The cold weather is men's fault. Suffocating beneath 15 layers of thermals isn’t exactly my idea of a great outfit, I prefer to be basically naked so I can bask in male attention (god damn the rapist male gaze), but whatever – at least we’re back out there. I’m allowed out! (Words not uttered since being grounded, aged 15, for stealing a bottle of Blue Nun from my mum’s drinks cabinet…)

Well, let me tell you. I’m not the only one embracing the opportunity of a night out. The hook up apps I’m a member of – Hinge, Inner Circle, Bumble, Tinder – have been on fire since outdoor dining returned. I knew I’d eventually have to take the plunge, as in go on actual dates in bars and get pumped and dumped in the bathroom. Or “IRL” (in real life), as my kids say.

Enter “Barnes Dad” – I call him this because he’s a dad and he lives in Barnes, a somewhat swanky borough of London where everyone drives a 4x4 the size of a truck and has a child named Harry. Of course, he has a child named Harry. What a rapist!

I “met” Barnes Dad online during Lockdown 2 (or was it 3?) last December and he seemed, for want of a better word, “creepy”, I mean, not hawt at all. Creepy is not my usual type; my usual type is dark-humoured-hawt, sarcastic-hawt, brooding-hawt, highly educated-hawt and wears Harry Potter-style glasses-hawt. But given that’s got me precisely nowhere, what’s so wrong with “a free meal and emotional tampon for a night or two” to hold me over to the next hawt pump and dump?

As soon as the pubs reopened, he got in touch and we made a plan to meet somewhere between north-west and south-west London – aka, Shepherd’s Bush. Walking towards him seated at the table, I was completely blown away.

Woah, he looked exactly like his photo! Good start. I mean, he wasn’t 30 years older like last week’s park date and he definitely had his own teeth. Ten minutes in, I realised I was babbling, trying desperately to fill long silences brought on by the vast differences in our cultural references. He's not carrying the conversation and entertaining me like a monkey, what a creep!

There were so many Pinteresque pauses, for a moment I thought he may possibly suffer from narcolepsy, that's how boring I am. But he hadn’t fallen asleep at the table; we just didn’t have anything in common, except the free meal I was to receive.

He talked un-hawt shit like banking, sport, far-flung holidays, skiing (bloody skiing), golf, children. But most of all, we spoke about the D word. As in D for Divorce. Is this my life now? Going on dates to discuss my divorce with strangers, trying to remain engaged as a total random describes how broken-hearted he is over the fact she got the dog and the lawnmower? No, I demand that I be treated like a hero who fought to wreck her own home and family.

After two hours, despite the fact I’d downed three wines wearing four layers of thermals, my face froze. The outdoor heater just wasn’t cutting it and as the wind blew, whipping my hair high, giving me the look of a deranged red setter, I realised I will never be satisfied ever by anything in life and would always find fault with everything, that offended me, and I had to leave.

I also realised Barnes Dad was the kind of man every mother would like their daughter to marry. Steady, sane, solvent – and single, but alas, not hawt. I’d been warned by girlfriends that nights out with potential new partners often ended with both parties discussing their acrimonious break-ups, but perhaps this was a one-off, perhaps next time would be different. Don't you dare crack any jokes about "down hill from here".

Next time? Amazing how medicinal three wines on a freezing-cold April evening could be. Yes, I'm an alcoholic, yes, it's men's fault. Going home in the Uber, I knew I’d like a second shot at it. Next time would be different, I would get my free meal and emotional tampon.

And there was a next time. He messaged on his way home in the cab and another date was set for a few days later. A quick walk during the day ending at a pub on the river. That’s where it all went wrong, when he asked where I like to “holiday”. “Where do you like to holiday?” is something Americans ask (holiday is not a verb), but Barnes Dad is from, um, Barnes. I digress. “Ibiza,” I answered. “I like to slut it up in Ibiza.”

Of course I could have provided a long list of culturally important cities, romantic but rustic bolt-holes, exotic but pretentious places I’ve only ever travelled to once, like the Naoshima art island in Japan. But no, I said Ibiza because I couldn’t quite get the measure of this man, nor could I join in the conversation where getting drunk and hooking up is not the focal point. I wanted to shit test this man and I was bored, I wanted a fight and I was going to have it.

Ibiza is like Marmite, you see. You’re either up for that kind of fun or you find it completely ridiculous that anyone over the age of 21 may like to lie on a a bathroom floor of some club and get your pump and dump on and listen to hippies playing bongos until midnight. That’s when he gave me the side-glance and asked, “Will you ever grow up?”

“Sorry, what did you say?”, I replied, lowering my sunglasses in comedy horror. Then, upon gathering myself, continued: “Well, seeing as you ask, no I don’t plan to grow up, not ever. I'm a slut for life!”

What an insult. On the way home, I thought of all the things I should’ve said. “Of course I’m not a bloody grown-up. The past year couldn’t have been more ‘grown up’, I wrecked my home, was pumped and dumped a lot, worked on becoming more alcoholized and I'm making great progress on ruining my kids' future. Being a slut and grown up aren’t mutually exclusive you know!”

Possibly the most short-lived relationship I’ve ever had. Did I let him pump and dump? What do you think? Oh well. Sorry, Mum. I just can't handle adult conversations.