Last Monday, I met a man in a bar that was selling pints for 70p. I kid you not. It was astonishing!
And that is where the astonishment should end.
Just in case you were thinking for a brief moment that my surprise (I can’t use that word again) was over meeting a man in a bar, I should be clear that this was another Tinder date, and not that (almost impossible) natural meeting of two people in a place that serves beer. I should also be clear that the man wasn’t literally selling the pints – that was the bar (or rather, the bar staff, I suppose…) but now I’ve overthought the semantics of that opening sentence and…
This man was called Stuart. We’re using his real name this time – and if I’d have thought about it enough, the fact that he was called Stuart should probably have told me all I needed to know. (I just can’t see myself ending up with a Stuart… Can you?) He lived and worked around an hour outside London (second red flag – I don’t know what I was thinking!) but he had nice hair and a nice face and that nice pretty-boy thing going on and, well, I’m powerless to resist that sort of thing. He also messaged me first, and often, and suggested that he would come into Central London for our date, so I was – understandably – feeling pretty confident that he wasn’t going to be Like All The Others. Then when I arrived at the bar just before 7pm and was met with the unexpected news of a 70p pint – sold! This was going to be a great night!
To give him his credit, he arrived on time – as good looking as his pictures suggested and with the added bonus of being well over 6ft tall, which – as I’d panic-texted my housemate – was much taller than I was expecting someone that good looking to be. (I have learned rather fast that there are real expectations and then there are Tinder expectations…) He bought us all of the (more expensive!) drinks and he was charming and talkative – we covered all of the usual date conversation ground and even managed to make it through a not-so-subtle-moving-in-for-a-kiss moment. Twice. At the end of the evening – after the bar staff had ushered us out of the door – he walked me to the station and told me he really hoped he’d see me again. Textbook.
When I woke up the next morning he’d sent me a text reiterating what a good a time he’d had – along with extolling the virtues of chicken nuggets (he’s not wrong) – and then he sent me a topless Snapchat asking me how my day was going. That’s two different types of getting in touch – I’m onto a winner, right?!
I’ll admit, Snapchat wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for in terms of post-date communication – and he was probably a little disappointed with the Snap he got back (who even does that?!) – but I figured he was making enough of an effort that we’d be seeing each other again. We carried on messaging…
And then he vanished.
And not even because I didn’t see it coming.
I’m astonished because just like all the others seems to be just the way men are – and it’s baffling that so many men can spend so much time, money and energy on not getting laid.
So it turns out that love don’t cost (a thing) 70p. But at least that’s all I spent on this attempt. On to the next.