There have been many tinder diaries over the years; from Sex and the City, to Why Won't You Date Me to She Rates Dogs. These diaries cover the good the bad and the ugly of dating.
These short snippets cover my approach to dating, why it didn't work out and why they probably need to take a long rummage around in the hurt locker. First of all, my Tinder bio;Ideally looking for a man with the same aftershave as my dad to fill the void he left. But a woman who has attachment issues will also be welcome. Will also swipe right on anyone called Harriet or a red head. No one is safe. Once elbowed in the head by Jason Momoa.
Granted, there is a lot going on here. What is she looking for? A mum? A Dad? A partner? A fuck? To be honest, I have no idea. BUT it's a great conversation starter. And as a result, the weirdos descend (including my current partner so I must have done something right).
I had read the numerous posts of girls who were getting regular paychecks and holidays simply by looking good and being DTF. Two things I excel at. Basically, I want money.
Telling my parents I was going on a date with a man in his 50's worth £2.5M had mixed results; my mum urging me to keep my location turned on and my step dad excitedly looking for holidays on Thomas Cook for the big payday I was likely to deliver.
We met in SoHo, as all promising lovers do. Him, hoping to have a a sure bit of eye candy. Me, thinking of how nice it would be to pay off my student loan.
We began the evening in a small Italian restaurant, just having a bottle of wine and olives. Small talk about what I did and what he did and then onto the whole;
To which he begins a lengthy, well rehearsed yet poorly delivered monologue on how much he hates his ex wife.
In any situation, when a person speaks passionately about their hatred of their ex, you feel concern. Alas, like any good sugar babe, I listened patiently whilst Nicole Kidman's rendition of Diamonds are a Girls Best Friend played in my head. four hours and two new restaurants later, I was starting to miss his ex myself. The situation was far from what either of us imagined.
I wasn't not attracted to him, but equally the thought of sleeping with a man who had spent the evening simmering in dislike, didn't give me the famous fanny flutters.
On his sofa?! I am inclined to believe this odd little creature isn't as rich as he claims to be, or if not the housing crisis in London is even worse than first thought if even as a millionaire you have a one bedroom flat.
After spending a few more days on "seeking arrangements" trying to find a nice older man who was into the idea of strictly no touching, speaking, or looking at each other whilst sending regular payments of £1k to my bank account, proved fruitless, I packed it all in. I might as well keep shagging peasants. Usually they're not so resentful.