“Second Chancer”

Once upon a time, a long time ago, I went on a date in Green Park/St James’s Park, for a hot chocolate. It seemed sensible at the time, I think it may have been a Sunday afternoon which is a good time for a date – not too intrusive on your day and you can always escape. It didn’t go all that well. I remember it probably lasted an hour, he smoked (which in the daytime is more obvious than if you’re out for drinks), he was a shadow of his photos, and as a fickle human being, it wasn’t right.

Fast forward and not too long ago, swiping on Tinder as I do from time to time, this super like popped up and I may have swiped right. I know… nobody likes a super like! He was a familiar face (we follow each other on Instagram) and I was being polite. It was also Saturday night and I was very hungover watching Disney’s new Cinderella and eating pizza. It was the best kind of Saturday yet also a low one. He sent a message after we matched, and plied me with compliments, and the conversation was flowing that I struggled to remember what it was that wasn’t right the first time. He reminded me he wasn’t top form. He also told me that he had put on weight and had quit smoking, and that he is going to get his teeth done – I felt like such a bitch.

Anyway, we messaged for a bit longer, swapped numbers again and eventually I caved into believing people deserve second chances. Second Chancer was so keen.

A vague plan was formed for a second chance at a Sunday date. This time beer was to be involved. Clever beer.

Second Chancer busted out all the lines, all of them. Told me his friends had told him not to go on the date before, that he was punching and that on a hangover he shouldn’t go. This time he’d told them and they told him ‘God loves a trier’. I probably smirked a lot and I know I told him off a lot for saying such nonsense. Poor sod probably got a mix of signals whilst I got drunk.

It was fun, he was pretty easy to get along with and I am as I said, a fickle sod so clearly the compliments and lines all worked and we had a nice time (snogging – ooh er). We will be meeting again to see if it was the effects of multiple beers or not. To be continued…

“High Guy”

On my dating profile I have a little list of things about me, which I often doubt that many lads read.

High Guy did, his opening gambit on Tinder was a ramble of a reply to each point on the list. It was better than ‘hey’, ‘hello’ or ‘hi’ so I replied and consequently there was a bit of back and forth in messaging. 

It turned out that High Guy had had a big night the night before, his name now might make sense. He was taking his mum and her friend to lunch and would I like to go for drinks later: I was non committal. I already had some plans; I was going to Wembley to watch football and didn’t really fancy a big night of drinks after this which is what he was alluding to. 

As the afternoon went on High Guy bailed on the drinks anyway, said he was totally hanging and in bed drinking whisky. I ventured back from my already made plans, told him not to worry, what will be, will be. I should point out we both live in the same part of London, such are Tinder’s super capabilities, and I had also mentioned I was getting a McDonald’s and heading home. 

High Guy said to wait 5 minutes, he’d man up and head out to meet me. Mainly because he was flying off somewhere the next day and this was his chance, and that I wasn’t allowed to go to McDonald’s.

High Guy arrived, still totally out of it and off his face. Clearly. Whilst this was amusing, it was obviously a struggle. He asked me the same question three times. We had a drink and I said I would be heading to McDonald’s – he knew his time was up and agreed he should not have ventured out. He wanted to take me to a Turkish place, so he twisted my arm and off we went and High Guy tells me he is a vegetarian. Actually a pescatarian as I asked him if he eats fish. This makes it tricky when you’ve got a cheeseburger on the brain.

He inhaled the mezze, wanted lots of chilli sauce, and that was that. We said our goodbyes, and I went to McDonald’s anyway.

“The Kiwi”

I have never dated someone from New Zealand before, therefore The Kiwi will be his name. I appear to be on ‘a bit of a roll’ with first dates at the moment, so much so that my brain is confused with what I know about people, so I have had to scroll back to the start of my Tinder conversation with The Kiwi to remember how it all began.

And it was a pretty good beginning in some respects, The Kiwi opted for the ‘2 truths, 1 lie’ approach to engage me in a conversation. This is better than what GQ suggests, ‘hey’ really is not an opener. The Kiwi’s method worked, however he got the answer from these options below incorrect:

  1. I’m fluent in German.
  2. I don’t like pineapple.
  3. I have naturally blonde hair.

Conversation on Tinder then flowed to the usual small talk, which was all going on around the time I was about to go on a date with Choco Leibniz. Hence I get confused about what I knew. Too many details to remember!

It was all pleasant enough, he invited me for drinks and I like to drink, so plans were set.

We went to a busy bar, conversation flowed, we talked about our top 5 destinations we haven’t yet made it to – we have different lists. He was drinking pale ale, which I like, so after a couple of drinks, we went to a pub for a better offering of the stuff, so that I could have some too. We whinged about work, though I think The Kiwi was whinging more than me!

We must have decided to get food after a couple of pints of pale ale, but there was a wait at the restaurant of choice, so I suggested a bar next door for a cocktail in the meantime. We then had more pale ale with our food in the restaurant.

After the waitress gave us a free pudding, we somehow were talking about tequila. Another thing we have in common, though The Kiwi had not had tequila with a slice of orange to follow, nor had he had honey tequila. I highly recommend this stuff! We decided to go looking for tequila after settling the bill (he paid).

The pub we found closed pretty much after we had ordered our drinks and tequilas, so it was time to call it a night. I think he might have still been whinging. I think I was drunk (I know I was drunk). The Kiwi casually put his arm around me, stops me in the street for a quick kiss and on we go to the tube.

It was all very pleasant, I think he said something about me showing him some other pubs sometime. To be continued? We shall see.

“Choco Leibniz”

Choco Leibniz actually started out as “Guitar-man“, when I started this blog, which is a bit lame (though I had a thought pop in my head ‘he could teach me the guitar if this goes well’). He soon became Choco Leibniz based on our messages about biscuits and our biscuit of choice (a great topic of conversation). FYI, mine is a Hobnob, all varieties. Choco Leibniz was on to a good start.

He suggested a pub quiz. I was a bit hesitant. Whilst this is a great date idea, is it right for a first date? Some overthinking occurred:

  • Committing to the quiz for a couple of hours, if not more, is quite a big ask for a first date. Recently, how long should a first date be is something I’ve thought about a lot.
  • What if I know too much and come across as a geek? Unlikely, I quickly realised.
  • What if I know nothing? Again unlikely, but what if I don’t know enough? Was I being tested?

I like pub quizzes so really none of this mattered. Choco had made a plan, which is a rare thing itself.

We met, we quizzed. Between us we were pretty average. We didn’t come last and that’s the main thing. My chosen specialised subject of the evening were the word/anagram based sections, Choco Leibniz’s was music (not biscuits), between us we were ok at TV/celebs and history but pretty useless on sport. We doodled on the back of a sheet, him mocking my rubbish maths where I had panicked and added an extra digit to my answer to how many centimetres wide is a tennis court.

We drank quite a lot… even when the pub closed after the quiz ended, we went on for a couple more drinks. Probably a little unnecessary, but maybe that proves we were having a nice time…

The bar was closing, it was time to call it a night. I ordered an Uber, and after a cheeky snog, off I went.

I wonder whether I will be making the quiz team again.

“The Big Man”

I have been told a few times that height does not matter, apparently “it does not matter when you are lying down”. Sorry if you thought The Big Man got his name for other reasons…

Height however is often the first thing you might notice about a person. Heterosexual females tend to fancy the idea of a taller man – “tall, dark and handsome” – who says “handsome, dark and tall”? It’s a tricky one to address in conversation if you’re online dating or using apps, I have ditched guys on finding out they are short, I’m sure most wouldn’t date me if I was a giant. Now you see many profiles stipulating heights. Mine included. I am wary of those who don’t mention it to be honest… I try to suss it from the photos having met a number of shorter men on dates. The Big Man being one of them.

I met The Big Man in a pub, after some messaging and to be honest, I thought he was a bit boring… I think I bailed a couple of times and then eventually met him, and again I was there first (I’m not always there first but see this is a bit of a pattern in my tales so far). I knew as soon as he walked in he was shorter than me. I’m pushing 5ft 9 I would say, most of the time I say I am 5ft 8ish because the bit of Blu-Tack on my wall is an accurate enough measurement for me. The Big Man told me I’m 5ft 8 because he’s 5ft 7 so the Blu-Tack is proven. Good job I was in flat shoes.

The average height of a male in the UK is 5ft 10 and the average height of a female in the UK is 5ft 5.  This doesn’t put me in that good stead for a tall man, but really I need a man that makes me feel comfortable and one I feel comfortable with. Like “Mr Voicemail” perhaps (one day I will blog about him, I just don’t know where to start).

If you really like someone you aren’t going to be bothered about what other people think, or feel daft walking along the street with them. I felt daft with The Big Man. On one date I turned around and couldn’t see him behind another person. I thought he was lost. Interestingly, The Big Man lasted a number of dates, maybe it’s because we were sat down a lot on them. Maybe it’s because we ate a lot of food on dates and I like food. I don’t think it’s because he was confident, like Rachel on Buzzfeed says about when shorter guys fancy her. He wasn’t all that confident.

I tried.

He also was a bit odd (he lived with his parents and had no ambition). Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a stint of living at home with my parents and have respect for those who do to perhaps save for a house, or because of something that’s happened – he just lived there because he could. We also had a few weeks where we didn’t see each other and I think if it’s right with someone it’s easy, because people make time for one another. It shouldn’t be that hard, and he was too short.

Anyway, long story short (sorry, not sorry), it didn’t work. Height matters and that is that. The average Dutchman is 6ft, perhaps I should live in Holland.




“Paddy McPasta”

Something you should know about me. If I’m going to spend my time on the proverbial shelf then I might as well have fun whilst I’m up there. This means I have entertained behaviour in the past that perhaps I shouldn’t have or pursued things I should have ditched. 

Paddy McPasta. Irish-Italian in case you can’t work out why we are calling him this. 

We had messaged a lot before the date, a constant flow of taking the mickey and finding out things we had in common. This is either a good thing (it’s fun, you know more, they have good conversation – he’s got Irish within him so past dating tells me this has potential to be fun) or a bad thing (you may run out of things to say when you meet because you know too much, or the worst thing, you meet and a lack of chemistry is zapped out of you quicker than you can say zap). 

I got to the date first. I prefer this sometimes because then they have to find me. However the bar was empty; Paddy McPasta walked past where I was sat in a dash as clearly he’d been rushing but then reversed and came over.

After the initial whinge about the journey here, the working day, we settled in to conversations about friends, weddings (because seems we both go to many) and holidays. Paddy McPasta gets me another Malbec (he makes it large) and himself an Aperol Spritz… we joke about his manliness. I learnt some Irish words and he gets more drinks and I become a little Irish. It’s like when I was in Dublin being an idiot all over again. 

We had some bar snacks, then Paddy McPasta somehow got onto being needy and hungover and says how he likes a neck rub and a tummy rub, just like a puppy dog. 

It was home time, he stands up, he’s not that tall. Oh dear Paddy puppy. 

We say our goodbyes – not really any flirting had gone on other than fun conversation – so just a hug and off I go.

He sent me a message to check if I had got home ok, asks if I’m in bed and asks me what pyjamas I am wearing and here is where I refer you to the beginning of this tale, I tell him and ask the same question back – I think this is a fair thing. Though by this point I’m a bit disappointed in him and I think the wine I’ve had knows where this is going: perhaps Paddy McPasta is a troublemaker. 

Paddy McPasta chooses this moment to send a pic of his pants. 

I wasn’t expecting this and said as such, I also said he didn’t seem very bothered on the date. I am still none the wiser other than thinking Paddy McPasta is like many others I have dated who are after nothing but mischief. It’s marginally disappointing and a bit strange after a seemingly normal and nice date. 


He was going to be called Gappy, but I thought that was too mean (as if this isn’t mean enough). Inferno, 35, told me on our date last night that he has been to Infernos in the last year, and to be brutally honest I think he goes there more than he let on and this is unacceptable for anyone over the age of 26 to be quite frank.

He can also have the name Gappy. Last night I broke two of my dating rules. I should know better given the amount of dates I have been on (it’s taken me forever to start writing this blog), but I break rules a lot. Life is short and all that.

First rule broken: ‘Don’t date guys who don’t have any photos where they are smiling with their teeth showing’.

Teeth are important. Aside from when I was dating Army guy, because it just did not matter…

It made me think, how many male celebs have gap in their teeth? I do not fancy Elijah Wood or Elton John. Zac Efron, maybe, but I think he had his teeth fixed.

I couldn’t get past the teeth gap with Inferno. I tried, I always try to rein in my initial ‘I don’t fancy this guy’ thought and see if I can see past it, they may be a grower but I think with Inferno’s baby face, there was no hope. Baby faced and goes to Infernos, I say no more. I need a manly man.

Second rule broken: ‘Don’t have a first date on a Saturday night unless you have a plan to go somewhere else (or fake plan) or are too bothered about potentially ruining your Saturday night’.

I didn’t mind, because I just went off home at circa 9pm after an hour and a half of a date where I didn’t really laugh – laughing is so much more important than anything else, they say food is the way to a man’s heart, I think laughing might be the way to mine. We shall see.

I realise I’ve not said much about the run up to the date, that’s because there wasn’t much, other than his name, height and a mutual interest in skiing, I knew nothing about him. He did however, form a plan and suggest the location, which is always quite a good thing for a guy to do – take note please – I think we girls like a guy to take charge (at times).

He was pleasant enough so Inferno at 6ft 3 and baby faced may do well with a 25 year old he meets in Infernos. Which is probably where he went off to after our date.

It’s a match, or is it?

I’m not going to sit here and write much that any reader (hello) doesn’t know already about online and app dating (and with any luck this blog may actually feature real life dating – ooh er). I probably won’t tell you which app I think is better, or assess all of them, because that’s not what this is all about, though the trials and tribulations of dating in 2017 may well become a theme, if 2016 was anything to go by.

This is about experiences, documented by code names.

From the match, to the chat (or lack of), to the date (I might though write about some that I don’t go on a date with, the pen pals that surface but let’s stick to actual dates for now), and seeing where it goes or doesn’t go. That’s what this is about.

The adoption of a code name generally happens either so that I know who I’m talking to or so my friends know who I’m talking about, it’s just what we do. Code names may come from the actual date itself or facts about the person, often location features but there are no rules to code names. Just that they exist.

Two days ago I started talking to two Andrews and it really confused me. Hence the need for a code name (Guitar-man is one, the other one I think I’m ditching, fyi). It also adds to my day-to-day banter with my pals if these (poor) guys get a code name. And my lovely pals often come up with them.

So here goes, 2017 will be full of some dating stories, some silliness and whatever else.