Today as I sat before my computer, my hope Reader, was to entertain you with some hilarious titbit from my troubled dating life. I thought I might share with you a recent encounter with a pervert, an oleaginous groper or even better a psychopath. My hope – it seems- was an extraordinary one, as it appears even societal rejects no longer throw me a cursory glance.
Apparently the well has dried up, the water ceases to run deep- worse the barrel can be scraped no more for it is now broken. I am now locked within the confines of an involuntary period of singledom, with my only day-to day male interaction coming from the hollow and tuneless voice of SIRI. Ladies and gentlemen I present; the professional single.
Fear that I was on course to venture into Life’s dark and shadowy abyss completely solo, was first aroused on a sunny Friday evening. Spending my working days in Canary Wharf, it is with frequency I encounter its regional charm. Namely water-front, alcohol-centric, two- dimensional vapidity- cleverly disguised as socialising.
As I walked past a moving sea of Prosecco drenched, sun revelling, be-suited, cardboard cut outs, I couldn’t help but wish for my own paper-made lover. For what is life without a generic and flimsy hand to hold?
And so I went in search of a hug-bearer, an affection-giver and a spider-killer (on the internet of course). Choosing Tinder- an app which could easily win the category for, hosting the Web’s most extensive assortment of rogue males.
Experience it seems has taught me nothing; having conveniently wiped from my mind’s own hard drive painful recollections of my match.com date, ‘Al.’ Clever ‘Al’ had used a profile picture so old it must have been taken B.C; B.C meaning ‘Before he was ‘Bald’ and ‘Chunky’.
On Tinder I found myself to be no less luckless in the losing hand of love. In the record two minutes it took for my profile picture to go live, I found that I had been ‘Super liked.’
To the Reader I must stress that the use of superlative here, had the opposite effect of the delirium it was meant to inspire. For, I sensed that my ‘super like’ came from the nimble thumbs of a socially inept, bedroom masturbator. Who more than likely was incapable of a relationship in the ‘real world.’
As I stared at the unknown face on my screen, it came as very little surprise the villain before me was dressed as Heath Ledger’s Joker. In truth I expected nothing less. I merely assumed I’d ticked the box which offered matches with nutjobs as an optional extra.
Perhaps all his regular clothes had been in the wash that day, and had we met I would have found that beneath the make-up there lay a passing resemblance to a 90s Brad Pitt. Either that or he would have come as first date favourite Nosferatu…
I won’t even attempt to recount my other Tinder horror story. Which involved moi and a gentleman who thought of himself as a vampire/werewolf hybrid (I kid you not).
My hopes of finding a better half, or any kind of half for that matter have now dissolved, rather like a scribbled wish thrown into the mouth of a bubbling volcano.
Perhaps I ought to have given that vampire a chance…