I got divorced five years ago, after 20 years with my ex – the father of my two kids. I remained determinedly and steadfastly single for the following four years – focused – on my job, my kids, my family and friends. However, something shifted in the autumn of last year. I saw my kids getting older and began to find myself with some free time on my hands – not something I was used to. Maybe it was time to find someone to enjoy dinner dates, movies, and theatre with? Sounded nice, and so began my ‘dating’ journey.
What started as a cautious maiden voyage on Bumble quickly spiralled into a full-blown swiping spree across Hinge and Tinder. And honestly?
The dating world hasn’t just shifted since I was last single back in the early 2000s—it’s practically unrecognisable.
First up was ‘B’. Tall, good-looking, and off to a flying start. I was actually thinking, ‘Okay, maybe this swiping business isn’t so bad.’ Then the waitress brought our chips. Without skipping a beat, B threw his hands in the air and chirped, “Ooh la la, merci beaucoup!” in a voice three octaves higher than the one he’d been using all evening. The ick hit me like a freight train. Rightly or wrongly, my brain instantly checked out. I was looking for an alpha, not a stage-school audition.
Date number two was a massive upgrade—at least initially. J was 6 foot 4, broad-shouldered, and smoulderingly handsome, carrying himself with the kind of silver-fox confidence that makes you forget he was ten years my senior. He even rode all the way over from Whitby on his motorbike, which felt properly cinematic. The catch? It quickly became apparent that his grand journey was strictly a mission to get me into his hotel room. Now, don’t get me wrong—he was ridiculously sexy, but I knew I was ultimately holding out for a connection that lasted longer than check-out time.
And so, the quest for Mr Right raged on. Next up was a delightfully flirty text exchange with a guy from Salford who was impossibly hot. Emphasise impossibly.
“Before long, my inner detective started tingling, and a quick reverse-image search revealed that “Salford’s finest” was actually a gay influencer living his best life in Ohio, whose Instagram photos had been poached! Congratulations to me: I’d officially survived my first catfish!”
The modern dating scene is an extreme sport. By this point, I was less than a month in, and I’d seen more unsolicited dick pics than a urologist sees in a thirty-year career and been catfished to the point where I now run full background checks before agreeing to a coffee. I wasn’t having much luck!
Then there was D, who rocked up with greasy hair, wearing clothes that hadn’t seen a washing machine since the last decade. He whisked me into a stunning country pub, where he generously ordered us two tap waters, before immediately launching into a detailed summary of his son’s current prison sentence for drug offences. I’ve had more romantic encounters at a petrol station.
S was up next. His photos had been given such an aggressive AI treatment he looked like a polished Ken doll, and the conversation was just as artificial. He kicked things off by asking if my marketing career meant I “just coloured in posters”—a real smooth operator. When he later asked how things were going, and I politely confessed I wasn’t feeling a spark, he didn’t take it well.
The passive-aggressive “But what have I done wrong?” interrogation began escalating from mildly pathetic to slightly terrifying with impressive speed.
Then came C—the very sexy, slightly older published novelist. What started as a few casual dates morphed into a multi-month friends-with-benefits situation. He’d constantly flip-flop between sending breathless texts about how much he wanted me and retreating into excuses about “not being in a great place for a relationship.” To be fair, his life was a bit of a train wreck: he’d lost his job and was still living under the same roof as his estranged wife. Even so, I had a massive soft spot for him. The intellectual spark was genuine, and the physical chemistry was off the charts. But eventually, his moody, cold texts whenever he sank into a low mood became too draining – I drew the line and finally hit ‘block’.
Date-land finally yielded a semi-serious contender in D. We even agreed to be “exclusive”—whatever that modern concept means! He had so much going for him: handsome, tall, local, and established. But our stages of life were just completely out of sync. He was in the thick of raising small kids, managing a heavy workload, and living through a house renovation, leaving him drained and stressed. I wanted fun, energy, and a bit of romance, and he just had nothing left to give. I was genuinely sad to walk away… for roughly 24 hours.
Then I put my swiping shoes back on.
From there, the dating carousel really kicked into gear. I had a brief, steamy detour with a muscly guy from Harrogate, followed by a date with a guy from Macclesfield who actually brought me a homemade slice of lemon drizzle cake to the date. Bless him, he was lovely, but the sheer, wholesome sweetness of it gave me instant, terminal ick. I was looking for a date, not a Great British Bake Off judge.
Next up was a total knockout—tall, gorgeous, and author of a car park kiss at the end of date two that nearly took my knees out, only to text-dump me twelve hours later – where did that come from?
Mr Urmston was next. We had great potential right up until I set foot inside his house and discovered he was living like a nineteen-year-old undergrad.
“I overlooked the clutter and dirt for several weeks, but it soon became clear he was as lazy in bed as he was with a mop and bucket.”
My search for Mr Right carries on. (Any decent single men out there, my inbox is open!) Deep down, despite everything, I remain a romantic at heart and still believe in love. But I’ve quickly learned that app-dating requires built-in rest breaks. Juggling two kids, a busy career, a dog, a cat, and a household leaves very little energy for dead-end small talk.
The second it feels like a chore rather than an adventure, I take a hiatus, turn on Netflix, and treat my friends to the latest instalment of dating disasters.
Like the date where the guy was so unexpectedly handsome in the flesh that I tried to act cool as I parked up and managed to reverse my car directly into a Range Rover right under his nose…
but I’ll save that one for next time…
By Rachel Hill
