So, it’s been almost three weeks of Tindering and the initial excitement is starting to wear off, to be replaced by some reflective thoughts and a lull in the action.
Watching and tweeting and writing over Wimbledon fortnight is pretty much a full time job. In some ways it was a relief that yesterday’s chap cancelled (he’d double booked: I could hardly make a fuss about him seeing his six year old nephew instead of me). Unfortunately what could’ve been a relaxing day became clogged up with a meeting with a potential flatmate and then a surprise visit from a married male chum, his wife and squalling infants.
“Why are you wearing a Dennis the Menace wig?” Dave my old friend says when he arrives.
“I’m not. This is my real hair,” I say. “Do you really think I’d pay for a wig that looks like this?” I say, feeling irritated.
Howls emanate from the next room where the toddler is having a tantrum.
“Sorry,” Dave says. “It’s time for his nap.
“I sympathise,” I say. “It’s time for my nap too, if I want to be awake for Holland vs Mexico at 5pm.”
“Ok, we’d better get going,” Dave says, picking up the baby, who is asleep, and the howling toddler.
“Thank you for coming to see me,” I say as I usher them out of the flat.
I certainly don’t want to be an exhausted slave to howling human larvae, I think. They’re not even furry. And yet surely It ought to be possible to find a nice chap to go on theatre trips with, and out to dinner and suchlike.
And yet out of my 16 or so first dates, not a single one of then has wanted to meet up again. I wonder if I am doing something wrong or if everyone is meeting lots of people, so there is a very high ratio of first to second dates. Or do I mean a low ratio? Whatever: lots of first dates and very few recalls.
Ah well: onwards and upwards. I’ve started setting up my first few meetings for this week and there’s one tonight. Wish me luck?