Before I was fat, broke, and one minor inconvenience away from crying into a Pot Noodle, I was the queen of my own tiny kingdom. A pub. Not just any pub — my pub.

A place where I could pull a perfect pint with one hand, shout a sarcastic comment at a regular with the other, and still clock someone sneaking a shot into their Diet Coke from across the room. It was loud, chaotic, and full of the kind of humans who’d offer you a pint, a fight, or a cuddle — depending on how many Jager bombs they’d had.

I had power behind that bar. I was the one who knew your order before you sat down, the one who gave dating advice while flipping burgers, the one who held court over drunk uncles and flirty lads in tracksuits. I was busy, in charge, and needed.

There’s a kind of confidence that comes from being constantly surrounded by people. From having purpose. From being asked “You alright, love?” two hundred times a day — even if you mostly replied with a sarcastic, “Clearly not.”

But then… the doors shut. For good.

The reasons were complicated — a toxic mix of life gone bad, loss, partners turning to ghosts, and bills that came quicker than customers. One day I was running a buzzing pub with greasy chips and wine on tap. The next, I was sat in a flat so quiet it made me want to scream — except I had no one left to hear me.

I went from being surrounded by hundreds of people a week, to seeing no one. From having random men buy me shots, to wondering if I could afford a loaf of bread.

Loneliness hit me like a hangover you didn’t earn — a slow, dull throb that lived in my chest and didn’t shift, no matter how many boxsets or cheap bottles of wine I downed.

So, I did what any emotionally unhinged, hungry-for-connection woman would do in the late 2000s.

I logged onto Plenty of Fish.

And so began my new career: fishing. Not for salmon — for someone who might hold me, see me, or at least split a takeaway. Spoiler alert: I caught a few. But let’s just say, some fish should have been thrown back into the sea. With concrete boots.

The Man, The Bush, and The Block Button

Let us get one thing clear: I did not plan to hide in a bush. No one logs onto Plenty of Fish thinking, “You know what this needs? Foliage-based surveillance.” But when the date you are meeting shows up wearing a flat cap, chewing gum like he’s in a Guy Ritchie film, and refers to himself in the third person... well, shrubbery becomes your safest exit strategy.

It started innocently enough. Bored, lonely, and three glasses into a bottle of £5 rosé, I downloaded yet another dating app. You know the one — where every man over 45 claims to love “banter,” long walks, and is somehow both “6'2” and “don’t mind if you're curvy 😉.”

His name was Carl. Or Craig. Something with a C and a wildly unearned confidence. He messaged first — which is rare, because most men on these apps treat effort like it’s a gym membership: they have one, but they never use it.

His opening line?

“You look like trouble. I like trouble.”

I should’ve blocked him there and then, but alas, low standards and high curiosity are a dangerous combo.

We agreed to meet at a quiet pub. I arrived early, looking cute-but-casual, armed with false hope and a backup excuse about an “emergency dentist appointment” in case I needed to flee. Enter: Carl. The human red flag wrapped in a Hugo Boss tracksuit. He greeted me with a wink and a “Alright, darling?” like I was a kebab.

Ten minutes in, he mentioned his ex. Fifteen minutes in, the Face Timed his mate to prove I was “fit.” I excused myself to go to the toilet and walked straight out the back door.

Now, here’s where the bush comes in. He must’ve seen me slipping out and followed me. I panicked, ducked into a hedge behind the car park, and sat frozen like David Attenborough might be narrating my escape.

“Here, we observe the modern British woman, retreating from the male she mistakenly matched with. She is quiet. She is disappointed. She regrets everything.”

Eventually, he gave up, to go smoke and send me three follow-up messages:

“Where u go?” “U, ok?” “Ghosting is rude babe x”.

Yes, Carl. Ghosting is rude. But so is showing up to a first date with a Bluetooth earpiece and an opinion on the smoking ban.

And that was just the beginning.

The One with No Teeth and Reebok Classics

Let me start by saying this: I do not regret dating for food. I regret many things—eyebrow piercings, bangs in 2003, replying “LOL” to a man’s poem—but never eating on someone else’s dime when I was skint and fridge contents resembled a post-apocalyptic cooking show challenge.

This was 2008. Dating apps were new. My standards were low. My blood sugar was lower.

I’d been scrolling through Plenty of Fish, equal parts hungry and hopeful, when I saw him:

"Friendly lad, likes walks, films, and spoiling his queen." Translation: “Has a car and maybe a job.” That was enough.

He messaged: “I’ll pick you up at 7, babe.”

And just like that, I was prepping for a free meal like it was the Oscars. Eyeliner. Push-up bra. Hopes. All applied too generously.

He pulled up. My dreams got out before I could.

He stepped out of his Peugeot like a man who’d escaped a dental prison. No teeth. Not one. His gums greeted me before he did. He smiled wide like he knew. Like he’d chosen it. Like teeth were optional accessories for suckers.

Worse still? Reebok Classics. White. Velcro. The kind that made him look like a gym teacher who also delivers parcels on the side.

I wanted to run, but my legs were weak with hunger and self-sabotage.

The car smelled like Lynx Africa and regret. He spoke in riddles, mostly about protein shakes and conspiracy theories involving the local council. At one point he said, “I don’t trust toothpaste.”

Reader, I noticed.

To be fair, he took me to a decent pub. Not Wetherspoons, which already made him Prince Charming in my eyes. I ordered the most expensive thing on the menu: steak. Judge me if you like, but when you’ve only eaten a stale cheese curl in 48 hours, ethics fly out the window. He ordered soup. No chewing required.

The conversation was mostly him explaining why “men are the real victims” and that “fluoride is mind control.” I nodded, chewed, and mentally wrote this chapter.

He offered to take me back to his place to see his lizard collection. Literal lizards. I said I was allergic to reptiles and men without molars.

Got out of the car, waved goodbye, walked calmly round the corner—then sprinted the rest of the way home like I’d stolen the steak.

Opened the fridge, stared into its gaping emptiness like Waynetta Slob. One expired yogurt and half a tomato. Still better company than Gummy Gary.

Sat on the sofa in my tights and full glam, sipping a glass of Echo Falls like it was a trophy.

Would I do it again?

Yes. But next time, I’m asking for dental history upfront.

The Polar Bear Walk

Hope springs eternal in the hearts of delusional romantics and women who’ve had just enough wine to believe a man who says, “You remind me of a mermaid.” Spoiler alert: I do not. I remind people of a woman who once sprained her ankle getting off a beanbag.

But this guy—let’s call him Mystic Mike—had a beard, a man bun, and a habit of sending me short stories at midnight. One was about a lonely jellyfish. One was a metaphor for depression or dishwashers, I wasn’t sure. But I liked it. He said we should “go on a journey.” I said I liked pubs with a jukebox. He said, “No. A real journey. Let’s walk to the polar bear.”

I assumed that was code for something sexy, or at least food related. It was neither.

We met outside a pub on the Isle of Wight. He arrived wearing sandals, a backpack, and the air of someone who’s either seen a vision or done a lot of mushrooms. He was also at least five inches shorter than his bio claimed. Which meant I towered over him like a sexy giraffe in flared jeans and stacked heels.

“Are you ready for the hike?” he asked. What now? He pointed toward the hills. “To the polar bear.”

My thighs clenched in protest. My ankles whispered, “Don’t do it, Melissa.” But I was trying to be a more open-minded version of myself. One who dated men with hobbies and functional joints. So, I followed him.

We walked. And walked. And climbed. And walked some more. At one point I stopped and offered a silent apology to my knees.

He told me the polar bear was a mystical chalk marking—something spiritual.

Spiritual? It was a white blob on a hill. If I squinted hard, it looked like a blob that had once seen a bear on telly. I was sweating like a bin fire in Ibiza. My lashes started detaching in protest. He offered me a hemp seed protein bar. I took it, chewed it for 11 minutes, and still couldn’t tell if it was food or compost.

We reached the top. I gasped—not in awe, but from lack of oxygen. He said, “There it is. Do you feel it?” I said, “Is that the polar bear?” He looked disappointed. “You have to let go of the literal.” I wanted to let go of the date—and shove him gently off the ridge.

The walk back down was mostly me plotting my escape and fantasising about garlic bread. I asked if we could grab food after. He said, “Food distracts from real connection.” I said, “So does fainting.”

I got home, kicked off my heels, and slumped onto the sofa like I’d just completed a triathlon. Texted Jess: “If I die, tell my story. Start with the sandals.”

She replied: “The polar bear is not real. But your bunion is.”

Wine Is Not a Coping Strategy (But It Helps)

I didn’t plan to cry in Sainsbury’s today, but here we are.

It started off so well—I was in my “put together” outfit (black leggings, oversized jumper, hair in a bun that says, “I’ve got my life together,” but also “I haven’t washed in two days”). I went in for toilet roll. I left with a bottle of Pinot Grigio and the urge to disappear into the reduced section forever.

Let me explain.

Sat on the sofa, scrolling through Plenty of Fish like it owed me money. Every man was either holding a fish, a child he doesn’t explain, or wearing sunglasses indoors. One had an eyebrow piercing and a snake, which frankly just felt greedy. I matched with one called Craig. Bio said: “Honest, fun, just looking for something real.”

Translation: recently divorced and still thinks “Netflix and chill” is a legitimate date idea.

He messaged: “Hey sexy. U into toes?” Unmatched immediately and made a cup of tea strong enough to punch me in the face.

I made a sandwich so sad it could’ve written poetry. Bread, crisps, vague regret. Sat eating it while watching a couple on Facebook make matching protein smoothies. She was smiling. He had abs. I had half a Quaver stuck to my bra.

Went to Sainsbury’s for essentials. Saw someone I once snogged in a pub car park back in 2002. He was with a woman who looked like she flosses with celery and does yoga for fun. I panicked. Hid behind a stack of discounted Mr Kipling and made direct eye contact with a tub of hummus.

And then it happened. A woman walked past holding hands with her partner. She leaned into him and laughed and I—unsheared, hormonal, and emotionally raw from POF toe guy—cried in the wine aisle.

A staff member asked if I was OK. I said, “Just choosing a Chardonnay.” She nodded like she'd seen it all before. Back home, glass in hand, I wrote a list:

Things I’m Good At:

Oversharing, spotting red flags and sprinting straight into them, eating cereal for dinner, Pretending I’m fine when I’m not, making people laugh while falling apart (a skill).

I am a bit broken. I do use wine as a coping strategy, but I also showed up to life today. I got out of bed. I swiped, I cried, I made it through Sainsbury’s without being sectioned. That is growth.

Tomorrow’s plan? No apps. No toe men. Just me, a hot bath, and eight episodes of something that requires zero emotional investment. Like Antiques Roadshow or Family Fortunes.

Swipe Right on Yourself

After sobbing in Sainsbury’s and being ghosted by a man whose hobbies included “crypto” and “karaoke battles,” I decided it was time to stop chasing external validation and start dating the most important person in my life: me. Unfortunately, I am terrible company.

I announced it to the group chat like a reformed woman on a TED Talk: “No men this week. I am taking myself on a date. I am the vibe.” Jess replied: “You are a vibe. Just not a consistent one.” Rude. But fair.

I ran a bubble bath, lit a candle, and played whale noises off YouTube because that is what self-care people do, right? Then I got bored after six minutes and Googled, “can you get UTIs from sitting in bath too long.” Decided to get dressed up for myself. Popped on my leopard print wrap dress (the one that makes me feel like a sexy divorcee with a dark past) and made myself a full face of makeup. Looked in the mirror. Said, aloud: “If I saw me in Aldi, I’d flirt.” Confidence = activated.

Went to a café with a book I had no intention of reading and ordered Eggs Benedict like I had never cried into one before. The waiter said, “Just one?” and I said, “Yes. Just me and my bad bitch energy.” He nodded slowly and offered me a loyalty card. I took it. Obviously.

The table next to me was a couple on a second date—confirmed when she asked, “So, how long were you in prison again?” I felt smug. No man, no drama. Just me and my hollandaise.

Popped into a charity shop. Bought a novelty mug shaped like a sloth and a scarf I will never wear. Sat on a park bench pretending I was in a film montage. It started raining. Montage ruined. Realised I had no umbrella and forgot how to be alone without checking my phone every eight seconds. Briefly messaged Jess: “Can I date myself and still text you constantly?” She replied: “You are dating yourself is already a terrible situation.”

Back home, I poured a glass of red, turned on a dating show and screamed “NOOOO” every time someone said, “good vibes only” or “connection on a soul level.” I then drunk-texted myself via the Notes app: You are a Queen. You just have IBS and questionable taste in men. You cannot help that. I also wrote a poem called “Ode to a Kebab That Never Came” and cried laughing for 15 minutes. That counts as therapy.

Dating yourself sounds empowering until you realise you have spent £18.95 on eggs, wine, and a mug shaped like a mammal you spiritually identify with.

Still, I did not cry in a supermarket today. Did not settle for some man who calls women “birds.” Did not ghost myself. Progress.

Tomorrow I might date again. Or I might spend three hours deep-diving conspiracy theories about how toothpaste is a fraud. Either way—I will be wearing the leopard dress.

The One Who Took Me to Greggs and Called It Fine Dining

It has been a whole 48 hours since I told myself I was done with men. So naturally, I downloaded Plenty of Fish, after deleting it five times already.

It is not weakness—it’s research. Met someone who seemed promising. Let’s call him Dan from Derby, even though he wasn’t from Derby and I’m 74% sure his name wasn’t Dan.

His bio said:

“6ft, loves food, looking for real connection. Good banter essential.”

Tick, tick, and I thought: well, I am food. So, I messaged first. A modern woman, brave and unhinged.

Dan: “You seem like you’re fun and deep.” Me: “Like a paddling pool with emotional issues.”

He laughed. We vibed. He asked if I fancied meeting for lunch. Said he had a surprise in mind. Surprise! I’m still an idiot.

He picked me up in a Corsa that smelt like Lynx and microwaved sausage rolls. He was shorter than his pictures (standard) and played drill music loud enough to dislodge my fillings. But I was hungry and hopeful. Then he pulled into the car park of Greggs.

I stared. He beamed. “This, okay?” he asked. “Everyone loves a steak bake.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or ring Women’s Refuge. We queued. He ordered a sausage roll, two jam doughnuts, and a bottle of Lucozade. I said I’d have a cheese and onion pasty. He looked surprised. “Wow, you eat carbs?” I nearly drop-kicked him into the sausage roll section.

We sat outside on a bench next to two schoolboys and a pigeon with one foot. He offered me a bite of his doughnut as if it was a romantic gesture, then told me he “usually doesn’t date women over 40.” I said I usually don’t date men who think napkins are optional, and yet here we are. He asked what I did for a living. I said I work in catering. He said, “Oh so you just like… make sandwiches?”

I smiled politely while planning his fictional funeral.

Phone rang (bless Jess, I texted her a codeword— “steak bake”—30 minutes in). She faked an emergency. I faked concern. Dan looked confused. “Thought we were vibing,” he said, licking sugar off his thumb. I said, “We were. Until I realised, I have more chemistry with the sausage roll.”

Got out. Walked home. Wrote this while eating a tub of ben and Jerry’s in bed, whilst watching a rerun of the Bold and the Beautiful.

Final thoughts: At least Greggs didn’t ask if I eat carbs.

Still Fat, Still Broke… But Funnier

I may not be thriving, but I am surviving—with flair, sarcasm, and a wardrobe that now includes three “power scarves” from charity shops. One of them smells faintly like soup, but I’ve chosen to believe it’s vintage. Let’s assess I am still broke. Still overweight according to the BMI chart (which is a tool of the devil and should be burned). Still single. Unless you count the Deliveroo man who calls me “babe” and knows my Friday order. But I’m also...

Funnier. Sharper and weirdly... a bit proud of myself?

Went to weigh myself this morning. The scale laughed. Not, but spiritually. It said “Err.” I said, “Same.” Put it back under the bed and ate a crumpet to calm the mood.

I went for a walk today. Not for fitness, just to get out before the walls started speaking. I passed a couple arguing about bins, a kid screaming at a pigeon, and a dog wearing a jumper that said “anxious.” Honestly, same. Then it hit me—this is it. This is the life. Not in a glamorous, yacht-party kind of way. But in a chaotic, budget wine, survived another sht date* kind of way. I’ve got stories. I’ve got stretch marks. I’ve got screenshots of texts that belong in the British Museum under “Red Flag Archives.”

Jess sent me a video of us dancing to Beyoncé last summer in her kitchen. I was double-chinned, red-faced, wine-drunk, and radiant. looked… happy. No man in sight. No Spanx suffocating my soul. Just friends, music, and joy that didn’t cost £12.95 plus emotional trauma.

I think I’m done chasing perfection. I’m not a Pinterest board. I’m not a “that girl” with a smoothie bowl and abs. I’m a real girl—with cellulite, a debit card that sighs when I tap it, and a laugh that sometimes turns into a wheeze and honestly? I love her.

So yes—I’m still fat. Still broke. Still alone on a Saturday night eating hummus directly from the tub with a breadstick but I’m also writing this book. Turning disaster into content.

Living proof that you can be an absolute hot mess and still be worthy of love, respect, and one day a man who owns proper shoes.

Stroke and the Lasagne Curse

Diary Entry: Date Unknown, Trauma Still Fresh

At this point, I’ve accepted I’m basically a fisherman. A broke, hungry fisherman with chipped nails and a slow Wi-Fi signal. Tapping away on the apps, trying to hook a half-decent catch. Not even a trophy fish—just one with eyes that don’t scream, “I collect Star Wars figures and restraining orders.”

So, there he was. Not rugged. Not even handsome. But kind eyes—and that counts for something when you’ve got a mummy pouch and boobs that need hoisting into position every morning like a circus tent. I showed his profile to my friend, the human filter of bad decisions, and she immediately said, “Oh God, I dated him a year ago. Lovely guy but loads of excess skin from a major weight loss.”

Now, I’ve got no right to judge. My body is a memory foam mattress—soft, saggy, and can’t remember its original shape. So, I invited him round for dinner. A home-cooked meal. Intimate. Safe. Cheap.

Mistake #1: Hosting. Mistake #2: Forgetting my house is Grand Central Station.

My daughter suddenly wasn’t going out. My neighbour (who also happened to be the ex of this poor man) popped in with her new fella. So now it’s a crowd. Perfect for an intimate dinner. Being a chef (but a skint one), I rustled up a lasagne and all the trimmings. It looked the part. Layers, cheese, sexy crisp edges. I even made garlic bread like I wasn’t £2.47 away from overdraft shame. He arrived… and immediate discomfort set in.

Not because of nerves. Because he looked… different. His profile was clearly a throwback to his pre-melting days. I later found out he’d had a reaction to medication which left one side of his body resembling a snowman mid-thaw. No warning. No heads-up. No “hey, by the way, I now list to the left like a sinking ship.” We sat down. My daughter laughed. Loudly. My neighbour choked on garlic bread. Then it happened. “Stroke.” Someone—Satan in a hoodie, also known as my child—mentioned Family Guy. That clip where Peter has a stroke. I stared at my lasagne. If I just focused hard enough, I could slide under the cheesy top and disappear forever. He didn’t seem to notice. Bless him. Two painfully long hours later, he leaned in for a kiss goodbye. I swiftly offered a cheek like I was royalty greeting a peasant. And then he said it.

“Your lasagne needed more seasoning, Huni.” He might as well have called my nan a whore. The lounge erupted in laughter. Full belly roars. They knew. They knew that was my kryptonite. Say what you want about my house, my hair, my lack of a pension—but don’t insult my food. Fifteen years later, I still can’t make lasagne without someone muttering Stroke and someone else gagging on laughter.

Note to self: No more dates with an audience. And start putting a medical disclaimer section on dating apps: "Currently not melting? Swipe right."

Jaw Dropped — Literally

15 years ago, dating apps were the Wild West.

No filters. No softening portrait mode. No AI pretending to be “outdoorsy” with a hiking photo from Google Images. Back then, if someone posted a picture, it was them — blemishes, bad lighting, all of it. The only real mystery was when the photo was taken. Pre-kids? Pre-hairline?

Still, I kept at it — partly driven by loneliness, partly by what I can only describe as a growing addiction to attention. Going from running a thriving pub, constantly surrounded by a hundred people a day, to sitting in a one-bed flat where even the kettle judged me… the silence gets loud. So, I cast my net wider. Literally. Expanded my dating radius to 20 miles. Ten just wasn’t cutting it — slim pickings and even slimmer prospects.

Enter: Oasis Brother

He was from Southampton. Had that moody Liam Gallagher vibe — bit edgy, into Britpop, and passed the "I’d probably snog you" test. We agreed to meet on a Thursday night at the pub next to my office. He sent me a selfie from the train, which was a relief — at least he looked like his pics. Small win. I walked in. He clocked me and said, “I’ll have a pint of cider.”

Red Flag #1.

Basic dating etiquette: always offer the first drink, especially if you're the one who arranged it. My heckles were already up. (Note: I don’t know what a heckle is, but mine were up.) In my classic “if I eat, they’ll leave” strategy, I suggested food.

Fat bird with a burger — it usually works as a repellent. He said, “Yeah, I’ll get a burger too.”

Me: off to the bar, paying. Again. The Crunch Heard Round the Pub.

Our food came out. He took a bite, then suddenly covered his mouth like he was shielding nuclear codes. Then it came: "Just so you know… I’ve got a metal plate in my jaw. It clicks out when I eat."

Reader, I cannot.

I’m squeamish. Full-body shudder, no eye contact. Instant regret for not including a “please disclose all metal parts before chewing” clause in my profile. I picked at my chips. Excused myself to the loo. Practised my fake “I’m having such a great time” face in the mirror. When I got back to the table — shocker — a drink was waiting for me.

He bought me a cider. Progress? Until…

He dropped to one knee. Yes. You read that right.

He pulled out a cider can ring pull he’d kept from the train and said:" I believe in love at first sight. "I feel a connection. "Will you marry me?"

Cue the lads from work at the other end of the bar hooting like hyenas. My internal monologue was pure static. I told him to get up. He went to the toilet. I went to the street.

Exit, Stage Left (Without the Scarf) I legged it. Got outside, realised I’d left my brand-new scarf. Messaged one of the work lads to bring it out. Jumped in a cab like I was fleeing the scene of a crime. Blocked and deleted him before the taxi even turned the corner.

Was it cruel? Probably but I’ve always said I’m quirky, not certified.

New Year, New Me… Still Me

Dear Diary-that-cost-£4.99-in-the-Tesco-reduced-bin, I woke up this morning wearing yesterday’s mascara, one slipper, and the creeping dread of my own “New Year, New Me” Facebook post. 24 likes—proof the internet loves a hopeless optimist. Unfortunately, the internet doesn’t have to live in my flat, where the only edible item is half a block of Red Leicester I’ve been carving slivers off like a Victorian pauper.

Resolutions (abridged version):

Stop calling wine “grapes”—that’s not how fruit servings work.

Go on dates that do not require emergency dental plans for the other party.

Become fit enough that climbing stairs doesn’t count as HIIT.

Write this book so future generations can laugh at my mistakes instead of repeating them.

I’d add “get rich,” but at this point even the universe would spit out its tea.

First heroic act of 2025 flung the leftover Christmas Quality Streets into the communal bin. (Accidentally kept the green triangles. I’m not a monster.) Then realised I’d forgotten to restock actual groceries. Note to self: kale will not apparat spontaneously like in Hogwarts. Briefly considered chewing on the thyme plant on the windowsill. Rejected plan when I spotted a suspicious cobweb.

Decided to delete dating apps and focus on “self-love.” Five minutes later, re-downloaded Plenty of Fish because self-love does not buy you lunch. First message: “U up?”—from a man whose profile photo features a live ferret riding on his shoulder. The ferret looks terrified. I feel you, mate. Left him on read. Re-deleted the app. (This is growth.)

Opened my banking app. Instantly wished I hadn’t. I’m the proud owner of £12.64 and 18,000 Nectar points I’m rich in vaguely stale supermarket pizza. Added “might sell kidney” to vision board, then crossed it off because I’m not sure mine are market fresh.

Phone buzzes with WhatsApp from Jess (best friend, enabler, chaos goblin): Jess: “Remember No-Teeth-Reebok-Guy from 2008? He’s back on Plenty of Fish. Fancy a nostalgia dinner? He’s paying.”

I pause, Mid-Chew of Matchmaker. Memories flood back: the sound of his lisp, the glint of dodgy trainers, the way my hunger overpowered common sense. I draft a polite decline… but hunger and comedy fodder wrestle the phone from my hand. Me: “Tell him I’m free tomorrow. Also ask if he’s got dentures now.”

Reflections Before Sleep: Today I ate vegetables (if you count potato waffle as veg; I do). Scheduled a date with a man whose molars are MIA (progress questionable).

Wrote 732 words—look, that’s a novel.

If tomorrow goes badly, at least I’ll have material. If it goes well… we’ll cross that bridge when we’re not broke and slightly drunk.

Anchors Away and Red Flags Ahoy

Bored of the local dating scene — a tragic mix of toothless grins, poor shoe choices, and the occasional whiff of inbreeding — I decided to cast my net a little wider. Literally. I expanded my search radius and set my sights on a sailor. Because let’s be honest, all the nice girls like a sailor, right?

He seemed genuine. Sincere. Sent me photos of his spare room (which I took as a weird but oddly comforting gesture of safety). So, I took the bull by the horns, packed my overnight bag (complete with fresh knickers and the good deodorant), and jumped on a train for what was promised to be a fun night out.

Ah, online fibbers. The second I saw him at the station, I knew I'd been catfished — or rather, shrimped. He was short, skinny, and had the faint aroma of week-old socks. But I smiled and thought, "Sod it. You’re here now. Might as well enjoy yourself."

We arrived at his two-up-two-down, and the moment the door opened I was punched in the face by the overwhelming stench of urine. Not a gentle waft. A full-on ammonia assault. I hovered in the hallway, unsure whether to breathe through my mouth or just stop breathing altogether.

I placed my bag gently on what looked like the cleanest surface — a floral chair that may or may not have been a toilet in a past life — when BAM! A cat launched itself onto my bag, chewing the tassels like it hadn’t eaten in days. Then another cat appeared. Then another. Apparently, he was on medical discharge, living with eight cats, and navigating some serious mental health struggles. I admired the resilience. I also wanted to cry.

Sensing my growing panic, he suggested we go to the pub. Yes. Pub = alcohol = escape route. We walked (I tiptoed) to a nearby sailor bar where we were greeted by his mates, all in uniform and clearly wondering who the hell I was.

One took a long look at me and whispered, "Run."
Another chimed in, “You’re too good for this. Come with us.”

Now, normally I’d be offended by such bold advice, but by this point I was two drinks in, emotionally unstable, and already mentally packing my bag. (The cats were probably physically packing it for me.)

So, I did what any sensible woman with a broken picker and a wild streak would do: I ditched him. His sailor friends rallied around me like drunk, horny bodyguards and convinced me to join them at another bar.

Next thing I knew, I was on camp. Like actual military camp. Surrounded by uniformed men, karaoke machines, and more rum than sense. I gave a performance so dramatic and off-key that even Simon Cowell would've wept. And yet — I was looked after like a queen. They tucked me into my own room, made sure I was safe, and the next morning I was personally escorted to the train station by an actual human gent.

I lost my favourite heels — I suspect a shoe-thieving sailor still wears them proudly — but gained one of the best impromptu nights of my life. Honestly, 10/10. Would be smothered by cats again.

The Man, The Myth, The Mummy’s Boy

After one too many dates with men who thought showering was optional, I decided to try someone who actually used punctuation in his texts. That’s where I went wrong.

On paper, he was perfect. Own teeth. Employed. Seemed like he’d read a book that wasn’t written by Joe Rogan. So when he offered to cook me dinner, I said yes — mostly because I was skint and running dangerously low on instant noodles.

He picked me up in a shiny little hatchback that smelt like pine and desperation. We made small talk — music, jobs, the usual — and I noticed he kept referring to “we.” As in:

“We love that restaurant.” “We always watch that show.” “We prefer oat milk.”

Naturally, I assumed he meant an ex he hadn’t emotionally detached from or, worst case, an imaginary friend. But no. Oh no.

He meant his mother.

We pulled up to a nice suburban house and he led me inside, announcing “We’re home!” like it was an episode of Mrs. Doubtfire. And there she was. His mum. In the flesh. With two wine glasses, a Shepherds Pie in the oven, and a knowing smirk that said, “I’ve already picked out the wedding dress.”

Reader, I stayed.

I mean… the dinner smelt amazing and I hadn’t eaten all day.

The evening progressed like a bad sitcom. She asked me my intentions. He told her I was “wifey material.” She asked if I could cook. I smiled and said I made an excellent roast. At one point, she brought out a photo album and showed me baby pictures of him in a sailor suit. He was 12.

I considered climbing out the toilet window but remembered I was wearing tight jeans and would get stuck halfway like a reverse Winnie the Pooh.

After dinner, he offered a “tour of the house” which was code for “Let’s go upstairs and snog under my Lego Star Wars posters.” I made an excuse, faked a yawn and said I had an early start. His mum hugged me like I’d passed an interview.

He texted me the next day asking if I wanted to go sofa shopping with them at DFS.

Needless to say, I ghosted.
But the Shepherds Pie?
10/10. Would endure passive-aggressive questions for again.

I see dead people

Let’s Talk Ghosting (The Real Kind)
Not the “we went on one weird date and he vanished” ghosting. The serious kind. The “we’ve been talking for weeks, planning futures, bonding over memes and mild trauma” kind of ghosting. The ghosting that leaves you spiralling faster than your Deliveroo history.

One minute, he's sending heart emojis and telling you about his mum's Chicken Pie recipe. The next? He’s vanished. No goodbye. No explanation. Just poof—gone. Like a fart in the wind. And now you’re left wondering if he’s:

a) Dead,
b) Kidnapped by aliens (if they are real of course)
c) Living a double life with a woman named Karen and two toddlers in Slough,
or
d) Just a knobhead. (Spoiler: it’s D.)

Now begins the ghosting aftermath:
You check WhatsApp. “Last seen at 08:42.”
You check Instagram. Active 3 mins ago.
You check your reflection: a little crusty, slightly puffy-eyed, wearing yesterday’s knickers and an air of rejection.

You start to question everything.
Was it me?
Was it the text I sent with too many exclamation marks?
Did he not like that I own a vibrating face roller and name my dressing gown?

The self-doubt creeps in like a toxic ex in your DMs.
So you panic-buy the most expensive eye cream Boots has to offer (spoiler: it won’t erase the crow that landed right on that jagged socket line).
You take no-makeup selfies to see if you’re still fit (mildly alarming but not child-scaring).
You look at your washing basket, then at the bikini bottoms doubling as underwear and think, single life does have its perks.

Cue sad girl soundtrack: That one song that ruins you every time.
You curl up with a cuppa and every five minutes, check your phone like a rabid squirrel waiting for acorns.

Eventually, we all do the same thing.
We text the one person we know will reply.
The backup plan of adoration.
The sweet, loyal, always-there one who’d treat us like royalty—if only we fancied them. Or if only they had... teeth. Or weren’t allergic to deodorant.

And then something shifts.
You get clarity.
You remember you’re a catch.
The makeup goes on, the “sad tracks” playlist is replaced by Beyoncé, and your wardrobe suddenly screams Hot Girl with Emotional Damage and Zero Patience for Time Wasters.

You swipe right, chin high, boobs higher, ready for the next round.
Because sure, you may get ghosted again—but you’ll do it looking absolutely fire.

And to be honest?
My life’s starting to feel like I’m auditioning for Sixth Sense 2.
I mean seriously—I see dead people daily…
They’re just the men I used to date.
Still ghosting. Still haunting.
And I still show up to work like it's fine.

🚩£19.99 and a One-Way Trip to Yeovil

Dressed to kill (well, dressed to mildly stun the locals and make the Co-op staff question their life choices), I strutted down the street with purpose. My mission? A ping-ding meal for one and maybe—just maybe—a cheeky slice of cake to cushion the blow of my love life’s latest collapse.

As I walked, head held high and bra just about hanging in there, I mentally scrolled through my new non-negotiables for future suitors:

Must have a job.

Must have teeth.

Must have ambition.

Bonus points for the ability to reverse park or operate a washing machine.

Back home, I stabbed my micro meal with the fury of a woman avenging her own heartbreak—fork plunging into plastic like it was a voodoo doll version of my ex. With 4 minutes and 30 seconds of microwave time ticking away, I downloaded a new dating app. This one promised the best matches, backed by science, algorithms, and probably a bit of dark magic. Begrudgingly, I paid the £19.99 “introductory offer” (translation: fee for the freshly dumped and desperate).

But he seemed promising. Nice smile. Clean-looking house in his pics. A full set of teeth and a car that wasn’t parked outside a probation office.
He arranged to pick me up. Classy, I thought. He arrived at 6:30pm sharp in a shiny white car—don’t ask me what kind, I just know it wasn’t held together by cable ties and prayer.

Then came the twist.

He needed to “quickly pop home” on the way. Sure, why not? An hour later, we pulled up to a house in the middle of bloody Yeovil. YEOVIL. If you’ve never been, imagine Narnia but without the charm or helpful animals.

We went inside.
He locked the door.

Panic set in. Was this how I was going out? Death by optimism? I casually asked to use the loo, phone clutched tightly like a weapon. Miraculously, the bathroom was right next to the kitchen door—and darling, when I say I bolted, I BOLTED.

Now I don’t run. I waddle briskly on a good day. But that night I ran like I was auditioning for the Olympics. No sat nav. No signal. Just me, my blistered feet, and a prayer to be found before I ended up on a missing poster next to a BOGOF offer.

Eventually, a friend rescued me. After several arguments, poor directions, and one full-blown meltdown, they found me crouched behind a street sign like a feral raccoon, gasping for breath and probably smelling like fear and impulse cake.

Lesson learned:
Meet in public. Don’t get into white cars. And always trust your gut—especially if it’s screaming “You’re about to be featured in a true crime podcast.”

When Your Date Brings His Own Packed Lunch

Now, I’m not saying my dating standards are sky-high. I’m not out here expecting Idris Elba with a pension plan and a golden retriever. I just want:

A full set of teeth.

A job.

Preferably no criminal record.

So when I matched with a guy who listed his interests as "dogs, travel, and cooking," I thought, alright—this could be the one. Or at least the one for tonight.

We arranged to meet at a cute tapas bar. You know, dim lights, tiny plates of food, all very Instagrammable. I made the effort: hair washed, make-up done, spritz of my "I might get lucky" perfume. I even wore a proper bra—not the greying one that could double as a catapult in a crisis.

He walks in.

Now... I’m not one to judge. But the man who listed himself as 6ft tall was, at a generous estimate, 5'9". And wearing socks with sliders. Socks. With. Sliders.

Trying not to look directly at his feet, I smile, say hello, and we sit down. That’s when I clock it: the backpack. A full-on, Year 9-style backpack.

Me, thinking maybe he’s got gym gear in there, ask casually, “Long day?”

He unzips it. I swear this happened.

Out comes a Tupperware box. Full of cold pasta. And some sad-looking chicken breast.

“Oh yeah,” he says cheerfully, “I don’t like wasting money on restaurants. This is my dinner.”

Reader, I ordered another sangria.

As if that wasn’t enough, halfway through my patatas bravas, he pulls out a protein shaker and starts doing bicep curls under the table. Apparently, "you’ve gotta keep the pump going."

I had to leave. Politely, obviously. I told him I had an emergency cat-sitting situation. I don’t even own a cat. However, a visit to the cat sanctuary is imminent.

So there it is. Another one for the collection. Add it to the long list of reasons I’m still single, alongside "trust issues" and "being allergic to socks with sliders."

The Cleanse I Didn’t Sign Up For

You know how people say, “It’s not about the destination; it’s about the journey”?

That’s how I feel about dating at this point. Except my journey usually involves bad shoes, awkward silences, and an Uber driver who feels sorry for me on the way home.

So, the other week, I found myself on yet another first date. Because hope springs eternal—or I’m just a glutton for punishment.

The guy’s profile was promising: rugged beard, said he was an entrepreneur, claimed to be “good with his hands.” I took that to mean he could assemble flat-pack furniture or at least open a stubborn jar of pickles.

We agreed to meet at a cocktail bar. I went full effort: hair done, heels on, best bra (you know the one—looks pretty but actually functions as scaffolding).

He turns up late, wearing a mismatched tracksuit and—of course—sliders. Socks. Sliders. Again.

Already mentally downgrading him from “potential boyfriend” to “might get a funny story out of this,” I smiled and sat down. I ordered a mojito. He ordered tap water... with lemon.

Then came the sentence that really set the tone for the night:

“I don’t actually drink. Or eat out. I’m on a spiritual cleanse.”

Apparently, for the last two weeks, this man had been living solely on beetroot juice and energy from the sun. SUN ENERGY.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for a healthy lifestyle. But I hadn’t eaten all day, saving room for bar snacks and flirtatious chips-sharing. Instead, I found myself listening to a monologue about how solid food is toxic while my stomach growled loud enough to get a round of applause.

I made my excuses—told him I had an early start, something to do with the cat (don’t own one, but it’s become my go-to exit strategy).

And the cherry on top? As soon as I got in the taxi , the driver gave me a look through the rear-view mirror and said, “That bad, was it?”

At this point, even strangers know my love life’s a joke.

Until the next disaster...

Am I a Spy?

So, there I was, thinking dating after 40 would be straightforward—maybe a bit rusty, a lot of swiping, some awkward chats, but mostly just two grown adults figuring it out without needing a secret handshake.

Wrong. Turns out, I accidentally signed up for Dating: The Covert Edition—where your romantic prospects come with more secrecy than a Bond villain’s lair, and the only thing shaking is your back after a long day.

It all started innocently enough: flirty texts, cheeky banter, and the promise of “catch-ups.” Translation: me cooking breakfast that could feed a small army while praying my knees hold up standing at the stove.

Then the spy games kicked in. The detective, spy thriller sieving through countless online profiles finding out anything i possibly can.

Seriously, I half expected to be recruited by MI5—or at least get a snazzy trench coat and a martini recipe. Instead, I’m just here wondering if I should invest in a walker with a built-in spy camera.

The “good guy” assures me he’s a decent chap—usually after his tenth pint, because apparently that’s when the truth comes out.

Best part? The classic:

"Might have to be at your place because there’s a third party in mine."

Nothing says romance like “Hey, my mates crashing here, so your place is now my love nest.”

So here I am, juggling the roles of girlfriend, mystery guest, and unpaid chef—all while trying to remember where I left my reading glasses.

If your love life starts to feel like a covert operation, with more secrets than your last colonoscopy and less clarity than your favourite TV remote at 3am, maybe it’s time to trade the spy games for some comfy slippers—and write a hilarious blog about it.

And hey, if you’ve got your own secret agent stories (or just want to commiserate over who’s been ghosted most recently), drop me a message. Because at this age, sharing is caring—and laughter is mandatory.

Life Reflections from the Bathroom Mirror

It always starts the same way: one quick look in the mirror. That’s all it takes. One innocent glance turns into a full-scale psychological assessment. I lean in, spot a new wrinkle, suck my stomach in until I’m basically crushing my own lungs, and think: “At what point did it get like this?”

There I am, face flushed, mildly dizzy, holding my breath like I’m about to walk onto Britain’s Got Talent in a bikini, and it hits me: maybe it’s actually me. Maybe all these failed situation ships, dodgy dates, and people walking out of my life aren’t some great cosmic accident. Maybe I really am, in the words of that one ex who never quite had the courage to say it out loud—genuinely batshit crazy.

I mean, let’s be honest. There’s two sides to every story.
Me: “We just didn’t click. I need someone with more depth.”
Them: “She turned up, looked at my garlic bread like it was an X-rated film, and started narrating her own actions like she was on a cooking show.”

Because apparently, I do that now. Narrate my own life. Out loud. Like:
“Right, we’re putting the milk back now because we’re a responsible adult.”
Who is we? It’s just me in the flat. No wonder the neighbours avoid eye contact.

And don’t get me started on the quirks. Once upon a time, I thought my quirks made me interesting. Now I realise, there’s a very fine line between “quirky” and “needs supervision.” Like when I reorganised my spice rack by emotional relevance rather than alphabetically. Or that phase where I’d only drink wine if the label had a gold foil top because, and I quote myself here, “gold equals quality.”

The worst part is sitting there, sucking in my tummy, promising myself that this week it’ll all change. This week there’ll be no carbs, no wine, no men, no emotional shopping on ASOS at midnight. But by Wednesday, I’m headfirst in a loaf of tiger bread, wondering if it counts as self-care.

By Friday, it’s full breakdown mode. One hand on my phone, debating whether to text someone I absolutely shouldn’t, the other hand digging in the back of the freezer for that emergency garlic bread I swore I wouldn’t keep in the house anymore.

And here’s the real kicker: I do know better. I’ve read the self-help books. I’ve watched the inspirational reels. I’ve even bought the fancy water bottle with time markers on it, as if my problem was dehydration and not, say, a long-standing addiction to emotionally unavailable men and white wine.

At some point, you have to laugh. You really do. Otherwise, you’re just crying into a salad you didn’t want in the first place.

So here’s where I’m at:

I may never fully get it together.
I will always narrate my own life.
I will 100% make decisions based on what bread I’m in the mood for.

Maybe I’m not fussy. Maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe I’m just... me.

And that? That feels oddly comforting. Like a warm garlic bread hug.

Cursed, Clingy & Chronically Hopeful

Another Entry in the Diary of a Delusional Romantic with Wi-Fi

I’ve come to the conclusion that I am cursed.
Not in the sexy, American Horror Story kind of way where I hex men with a sultry gaze and a rogue spell. No. More like: I’m the woman who attracts men who think therapy is a scam and believe "deep" conversation is asking what your star sign is while showing you their gym playlist.

Let me paint a picture for you.

I shaved my legs. I curled my hair. I even exfoliated my soul.
I turned up to a date last week looking like I was auditioning for the role of “Wife Material Who Definitely Doesn’t Cry in Public.” Within ten minutes, he told me I “seem like the kind of woman who could crush a man’s spirit.”

Thank you?

Honestly, that was the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this year.

But it got me thinking:
Maybe I’m cursed.
Not cursed like bad luck. Cursed like a human walking glitch in the romantic matrix. The Wi-Fi is on, the signal is strong, but all I keep attracting are men with buffering personalities and emotional viruses.

Let’s dive into the most likely causes of this tragic (but wildly entertaining) affliction.

The Siren’s Curse

I attract poetic types. Not actual poets, mind you — just men who’ve once taken magic mushrooms in the woods and now think they’re “spiritually awakened.”

They look at me with the same intensity I reserve for discounted cheese, say things like, “You remind me of a mermaid,” and then disappear faster than my willpower outside a Greggs.

I should’ve known when he told me his safe word was “universe.”

We had two dates. On the second, he brought a ukulele.
Not to play — to show me. Like it was a baby scan.

He told me my energy was “divine” but couldn’t name his own siblings. He meditated every morning and ghosted every evening.

The Situationship Hex

A fan favourite. This is where you end up in a “non-relationship” that looks, sounds and feels like a relationship — except it isn’t one.

He’ll stroke your hair, share his fries, and still introduce you as “mate” in public. You’ll leave your toothbrush there and wonder if that means anything. It doesn’t.

You’ll both say things like “I’m just going with the flow,” but the flow is sewage.

You’re not single, not taken — just emotionally held hostage by a man who thinks monogamy is a type of dinosaur.

Eventually, you’ll have the chat.
He’ll say he’s “just not ready.”
You’ll say you understand — and then cry into your Deliveroo, whispering “But we held hands in Lidl.”

The ‘Let Me Fix Him’ Affliction

Ah yes. My specialty.

I meet a man. He’s funny, charming, and hasn’t had a full-time job since 2018. His hobbies include daydreaming, vapes, and telling me he’s “just trying to find himself.”

I become his life coach, therapist, CV editor and cheerleader — all while pretending I’m fine with the fact he thinks brushing his teeth before midday is a “big win.”

I once dated a guy who asked me to loan him £40 for a tattoo.
He wanted “loyalty” tattooed on his neck.
The irony nearly killed me.

Another had big plans. Wanted to open a bar. Had no money, no experience, and no plan beyond “vibes.”
Guess who made him a business plan on Canva?
Guess who’s blocked on everything now?

The Feedback Loop Curse

I date men who think they’re TripAdvisor reviewers for women.

One told me I’d be perfect “if I lost a bit of weight and spoke less.”
I told him he’d be perfect if I had no standards and an ear infection.

Another said I was intimidating.
I said it was probably because I use cutlery and can form full sentences.

Apparently, being funny means I’m “too much.”
Too loud. Too confident. Too... alive?

Meanwhile, they’re sitting there smelling like regret and Lynx Africa, showing me pictures of their ex and saying, “She had a smaller waist, but you’re funnier.”

Gee. Thanks.
Would you like a side of therapy with that compliment sandwich?

The Mirror Curse

This one’s dark.

Because after every disaster date, every mixed signal, every red flag I mistake for a personality trait, I look in the mirror and think:

“Maybe it’s me.”

Maybe I’m too needy.
Too independent. Too this. Not enough that.

Maybe I shouldn’t have told that story about crying in Tesco.
Or admitted I’ve named my vibrator. Or laughed when he took his socks off during sex like he was clocking out of a shift.

The spiral begins.

I start Googling things like:

“How to be chill and mysterious without meds”
“What’s the calorie content of emotional damage?”
“Do men like women with opinions?”

The Self-Awareness Curse

And here lies the ultimate kicker.

Maybe my real curse is this:

I’m too aware of the game to play it anymore.

Too funny to be quiet.
Too honest to pretend I don’t care.
Too seasoned to get excited over someone just texting back “hi.”

I’ve done the self-work. I’ve cried in Pilates. I’ve had my moon sign read.
I’m not here for breadcrumbing, trauma bonding, or men who think emotional intelligence means crying when Arsenal loses.

I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.
I’m more like a triple shot espresso with a passive-aggressive note written in foam.
But I’m done shrinking to fit into someone else’s bland little teacup.

Exhibit A – Dave the Delusional

Date turns up. Flat cap. Tracksuit. No job, no shame.
Calls himself “Dave,” despite barely speaking English.
He tells me before we even sit down that there will be no second date — I’m “too big” for him.
I’m 5’2. I wasn’t aware I’d grown overnight into a Kaiju.

He then shows me photos of his ex — a petite blonde, posing like she’s lost in a PrettyLittleThing ad.

I try to be witty to save the night (and my pride), to which he responds:
“Being funny just means you know you’re fat.”

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is when I ordered dessert. For spite.

Final Diagnosis?

Not cursed.

Just chronically hopeful in a world of people who treat commitment like it's a sexually transmitted disease.

But I still believe.
In love. In myself.
In the idea that maybe one day, I’ll meet a man who doesn’t think flirting is insulting you until you cry.

Until then, I’ll be here:
Shaving my legs for no one.
Buying scented candles I can’t afford.
And laughing at the chaos I continue to survive.

Because even a cursed queen deserves her crown — and a man who owns cutlery.

Red Flags

Because nothing says romance like ignoring blatant warning signs while eating food you’ll definitely regret later.

Let me start with a confession:
I have ignored more red flags than a blind matador.
Waved them away like I’m directing traffic in hell, all while convincing myself that “maybe he’s just misunderstood” as he casually mentions that all his exes are “psychos” and his idea of therapy is punching a wall and calling it “release.”

You’d think I’d learn.
You’d think the moment a man shows up to a date late, smelling like regret and Lynx Africa, I’d walk.
But no.

I sit there, smiling like an idiot, dunking a chicken wing in hot sauce while he tells me why feminism has gone “too far.”

Red Flag #1: He Called His Ex a “Crazy Bitch”

Now listen.
We’ve all had an ex who’s tested the limits of human patience — I once dated a man who cried when I beat him at Monopoly. But if he refers to every single ex as “crazy”, guess what?
He’s the problem.
Not Sandra who asked him where he was at 3am. Not Zoe who keyed his car (allegedly). Not Emma who, according to him, “stalked” him by turning up to his workplace (where she also worked).

I once dated a man who said his ex was “obsessed with him.”
Turns out, she was his wife.
And they were still technically married.

Reader, I stayed for dessert.

Red Flag #2: He Says “I’m Just Brutally Honest”

Translation: “I enjoy being a twat.”

I was once four chicken wings deep when a man looked at me and said, “You’d be stunning if you lost a stone.”
I blinked.
He carried on chewing like he hadn’t just insulted me between bites of buffalo sauce.

Another said I was “too opinionated for someone not wearing heels.”

Sorry sir, I didn’t realise footwear determined brain function.

It’s always the men who look like they live off Greggs sausage rolls and audacity who have the most to say about your appearance.
But I digress.

Red Flag #3: “I Don’t Believe in Labels”

Ah, the classic.
If I had a chicken wing for every man who said this, I’d be too full to feel feelings anymore.

This is code for: “I want all the benefits of a girlfriend without any of the responsibility. Also, I might be seeing someone else, but you’ll never get proof.”

He wants to cuddle.
He wants to text good morning.
He wants you to meet his dog, his nan, maybe even help him pick a new bedsheet set.
But if you dare mention commitment?
Suddenly, he’s “working on himself.”

Sweetheart, the only thing he’s working on is a rotation.

I once went on six dates with a man who refused to call it dating.
He said, “We’re just hanging out.”
We were at a wedding. Holding hands. In matching outfits.

Red Flag #4: The Ick Collector

This is the man who says he keeps getting “the ick.”
Not because the woman was mean or violent — but because she used a straw weirdly or breathed out of one nostril too loud.

He has a spreadsheet of what he doesn’t want in a woman, but can’t name a single thing he brings to the table besides protein powder and an emotionally unavailable stare.

I dated one who told me he got “the ick” when a girl laughed too hard at his joke.
I said, “Well then, I must be your worst nightmare because I just snorted and inhaled a chicken bone.”

He didn’t laugh.
Naturally — I got the ick.

Red Flag #5: “I Don’t Really Do Emotions”

Translation: “I am a walking fridge.”

This man will flinch if you touch his knee affectionately.
He will say “lol” when you send a heartfelt message.
He will open up once, in 2021, when he dropped his kebab and admitted he was “gutted.”

I once told a guy I was feeling anxious and he replied, “Don’t worry, babes, just vibes.”

Just vibes?
JUST VIBES?

I am one panic attack away from losing it in public and you’re offering me vibes like it’s lavender oil?

A Live Chicken Wing Disaster

Let’s rewind to a specific night where I ignored every red flag for the sake of wings and the delusion that maybe, just maybe, this one would be different.

His name was Ty.
Yes. With one “y.”
That should’ve been my first clue.

We met at a dive bar where he ordered tequila shots before even saying hello. His first words to me?
“You look different in person. In a good way, though. You know… real.”

Cool.
Nothing like being told you’re aggressively 3D.

We ordered wings. He licked his fingers between bites and told me he hadn’t seen his kids in three months but that’s “not a bad thing — gives their mum a break.”
I choked on my spicy drumstick.

He then spent 40 minutes talking about how much he hated his job but refused to quit because “no one tells Ty what to do.”
Including managers. Including common sense.

When the bill came, he said he “forgot his card.”
I paid. Obviously.
I always do when the red flags are that loud.

As we stood outside, full of chicken and shame, he leaned in for a kiss.
I leaned slightly… away.
He said, “I knew you’d be one of those girls.”

I said, “I knew you’d be one of those Ty’s.”

And that was the end of that.

So Why Do I Keep Ignoring the Flags?

Because I’m an optimist.
A delusional, wildly hopeful optimist with a tendency to romanticise any man who can spell “their” correctly.

I see red flags and think, “Maybe they’re more of a burnt orange?”

I blame Disney.
And loneliness.
And hormones.
And also Deliveroo for having couple meals when I’m clearly ordering for one.

But mostly, I blame the fact that I’ve convinced myself I can fix things.
Men. Meals. Minor inconveniences like crippling emotional patterns.

But Here’s What I Know Now:

If the man:

Can’t communicate
Blames all his exes
Refers to Andrew Tate like he’s Gandhi
Eats chicken wings like a toddler on meth
Or makes you pay while he lectures you on crypto...

You, my dear, are not on a date.
You’re at an audition for your next emotional breakdown.

Run.

I’m done collecting red flags like they’re Pokémon.
From now on, I want green ones.
Ones that say:

“I go to therapy.”
“I cook with actual seasoning.”
“I don’t think ‘crazy’ is a personality type.”

And if that man happens to also bring me chicken wings and listens when I speak?
I’ll marry him. On the spot. Covered in sauce and self-worth.

A Memoir in 8 Missed Calls

Because nothing says modern romance like trauma bonding, future faking, and being ghosted mid-daydream.

Let me set the scene.

It was a rainy Tuesday and I was in a vulnerable state — which, for me, means I had period bloat, low blood sugar, and had just watched an old couple kiss on TikTok.

Enter Him.

He slid into my DMs like a Greek god on a hoverboard, opening with:

“Wow. You’re honestly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

I should’ve known.
Anyone who uses “honestly” in the first sentence is about to lie like their life depends on it.

But did I run?
No.
I frolicked.

Within 24 hours, I was fully love-bombed.
Showered in compliments. Drenched in dopamine. Swimming in emojis I hadn’t seen since 2015 — hearts, roses, the winky face with the tongue out (why??).
He told me he had “a strong feeling” about me.
I told him I had a strong feeling too, but it might be IBS.

And just like that, I was in deep.

We hadn’t even met yet and he was already talking about taking me to Paris.
I said, “Wow that’s romantic!”
He said, “I’ve never felt so connected to someone.”

Siri, play “Danger Zone.”

This man was building a life with me via voice notes.

He told me I’d “fit in well with his family.”
Sir, I don’t even fit in my jeans at the moment, slow down.

By Day 3, I’d mentally picked bridesmaids and checked how much it would cost to get “his & hers” towels made.

By Day 5, I had a Pinterest board called “Cottagecore Love Nest.”
By Day 6, I was on his Instagram story.

Not the grid — I’m not insane — but the story.
A boomerang of our WhatsApp chat with the caption: “What a vibe.”

WHAT. A. VIBE.
I was practically married.

And Then... Silence.

Like, full body-chilling, gut-punching silence.

First, the messages got shorter.
Then he “forgot” to reply.
Then the emoji hearts dried up like my patience.

I texted:

“Hey! You okay?”

He replied:

“Yeah all good, just busy x”

Busy doing what?
Inventing a time machine? Joining MI5?
He used to reply before I even hit send. Now I was staring at “last seen 1 hour ago” like it owed me rent.

Let the delusion commence.

Call 1: Casual.
I was “just checking in,” like a polite hostage negotiator.

Call 2: Slightly drunk.
I left a voicemail that began with “LOL” and ended with “I’m actually fine by the way.”
(Voice cracked on “fine.”)

Call 3: Hopes still high.
I convinced myself he was asleep. It was 4pm.

Call 4: Rage dial.
I played “Before He Cheats” on full blast and stared at his profile pic like I could hex it through sheer eye contact.

Call 5: No shame.
I cried while cooking pasta. Phoned him mid-onion chop like it was a Notebook monologue.

Call 6: Accidental.
My thumb betrayed me. Called him while trying to zoom in on his tagged photos.
(His ex looks like a model. I look like I once fell off a scooter in public. Because I did.)

Call 7: Group chat intervention.
My friends said, “Stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
I said, “Let me have one more.”

Call 8: The Finale.
Sent straight to voicemail.
I left a message so passive-aggressive it could’ve been written by Jane Austen and directed by Quentin Tarantino.

The Mental Breakdown Menu

The week after being love-bombed and ghosted is a buffet of unhinged behaviour. I sampled everything:

Crying in the bath to a playlist called “He Said Forever But Meant LOL.”
Instagram lurking until I saw he viewed someone’s story but not mine.
Asking the tarot app if he’s my soulmate. It said, “No.” I asked again. It said, “Seriously. No.”
Reading our old texts like I was in a BBC drama.

Him: “I can’t wait to see you naked.”
Me, weeping: “Neither can I.”

And Yet, I Still Wondered: Was It Me?

Did I reply too fast?
Did I laugh too loud when he said he doesn’t believe in feminism but “respects women”?
Was it the moment I mentioned therapy and he clutched his vape like it was a crucifix?

I googled:

“How to not scare men away”
“What does it mean if he ghosts but keeps his read receipts on?”
“How long do you wait before keying someone’s car emotionally, not literally, I’m just curious”

The Truth About Love Bombers

They don’t love you.
They love the feeling of being in love.
The spark. The high. The quick hits of dopamine when they say “you’re everything I’ve been looking for” to four different women in a week.

They don’t want a relationship.
They want an audience.
And I — dressed in hope, scented in rose water, armed with decent emotional availability — made the perfect target.

But the second you need consistency?
They vanish.
Like the word “vibe” from a serious adult conversation.

So, What Have I Learned?

If a man:

Tells you he’s never felt this way before... within 48 hours
Talks about your future before seeing your face in 3D
Replies in paragraphs then ghosts you harder than your dad’s tax return...

He is not your soulmate.
He is a walking dopamine grenade .

Put. The phone. Down.

Closure Came in the Form of Chicken Nuggets

I gave up chasing closure after Call 8 and ordered food like a queen on the brink of a breakdown.
As I dipped a nugget in BBQ sauce, I whispered:

“He didn’t deserve me anyway.”

The sauce understood. It was sweet, dependable, and didn’t ghost me mid-sentence.

I deleted the chat. Blocked the number. Reclaimed my sanity.
And then promptly redownloaded Hinge. Because I’m not well.

Final Thought

Being love-bombed isn’t romantic — it’s manipulative cardio.
It raises your hopes, your blood pressure, and the chances of you crying in public while pretending your mascara ran because of “allergies.”

But it also teaches you one thing:
Next time, love-bomb yourself first.

Blow up your own inbox with kindness.
Send yourself flowers.
Tell yourself you’re beautiful, amazing, and deserve someone who doesn’t disappear faster than a WhatsApp typing bubble.

Because if a man really means it?

You won’t have to chase.
You won’t have to beg.
And you definitely won’t have to leave 8 missed calls and a voicemail that sounds like an emotional hostage tape.

I Pretended to Like Rugby

Because nothing says “Pick me!” like feigning enthusiasm over a sport where grown men fight for an egg.

Let me begin with a warning:
If you ever find yourself Googling “basic rugby rules explained for women who just want to kiss someone with thighs like a pitbull” — log off.
Shut the laptop.
Call a friend.
Order carbs.

Because you, my sweet, slightly desperate angel, are spiralling.
And that’s exactly what I did for a man named Dean.

How It All Began:

Dean had that “could lift me and all my insecurities at once” vibe.
He worked in sales. Had a beard, a dad bod, and a toxic level of confidence.
He opened with:

“Are you into sport? Big Six Nations fan?”

And instead of replying honestly —
“I once tripped over my own scarf during a game of rounders” —
I said:

“OMG yes! Massive rugby girl. Love a scrum.”

A scrum.
A thing I’d only heard referenced in vague terms, alongside words like “sin bin” and “conversion,” which I was 99% sure was either a rugby thing or a religious experience.

He seemed impressed. He sent me videos of his favourite players.I pretended to care.
He sent me a shirtless photo after the gym.I absolutely cared.

We agreed to meet for a match.
A real, live, televised match with commentary, shouting, and men in jerseys who took it all far too seriously.

I spent the afternoon panicking.
What does one wear to a rugby match-viewing date when one does not do rugby?

I settled on a tight top to distract from my lack of sporting knowledge and jeans that screamed: “I may not know the rules, but I own a belt.”

Dean greeted me with a pint and a kiss on the cheek.

Mistake #1: I asked who “we” were playing.
“We?” he asked.
“The team,” I stammered. “You know… the red ones.”

They were not red.
They were blue.
And apparently, that was France.
And we were playing Ireland.

Fantastic. I’d walked in wearing emerald green earrings like a clueless spy supporting the opposition.

I tried. I really did.

Every time something happened on screen, I mirrored Dean’s reaction with about a three-second delay.
He’d shout “YES!” and I’d do a mini fist pump like I was cheering for someone reversing into a parking space.

Every time the whistle blew, I leaned in with “Ooo that looked... intense?” like a woman who just stubbed her toe but is trying to be cool about it.

Mistake #2: I called the referee a “rugby umpire.”
Dean stared at me like I’d just insulted his nan.

Four pints in, I was tipsy, hungry, and running dangerously low on knowledge.

Dean was still passionately yelling at the screen like the players could hear him.

I nodded along, smiling, trying to focus on his jawline rather than the game.

Then came the moment.

He turned to me mid-try (I only know that word now because I googled it later) and said:

“Isn’t this electric?! I just love the intensity, the strategy... what do you love about it?”

I panicked.
I said the first thing that came to mind.

“I like when they huddle in the scrump.”

Yes. Scrump.
Not “scrum.”
Scrump.
Like a naughty apple thief.

He blinked.
I blinked.
Time slowed down.

The Aftermath

He knew.
He knew.

The jig was up. I’d scrumped myself.

To make things worse, I accidentally clapped when the wrong team scored, and then tried to cover it up by pretending I had “clap confusion” due to the echo in the pub.
(There was no echo.)

Dean stopped holding my hand.
He said, “It’s fine if you’re not into rugby. I just thought you were different.”

Different??
Sir, I wore supportive underwire and pretended to enjoy watching sweaty men chase each other in mud. What do you want? Blood?

Post-Date Spiral:

I went home.
Took off my fake-supportive earrings.
Ate cold chips in bed.
Googled “Is it manipulative to lie about liking rugby for the promise of affection?”
Answer: Yes.
Did I do it again two weeks later with a man who liked Formula One?
Also yes.

What I Should’ve Said:

“I’m more into watching people emotionally regress on reality TV, thanks.”
“I love a man who plays rugby. Watching it? Not so much.”
“I don’t understand the rules, but I understand thighs.”
“Let’s talk after the game, when your attention span returns from the abyss.”

But no. I faked a sport to flirt.
And ended up cheering for France like a lost au pair with no Google Translate.

What I Actually Learned:

Pretending to like rugby — or any niche hobby, obsession, or extreme sport involving man-grunting — is never worth it.
Because eventually, the act cracks.
And suddenly you’re sat in a pub, clapping for Ireland in the wrong accent, while your date wonders if your brain is just one big empty stadium with a tumbleweed doing laps.

Let’s Be Honest

If a man lied to me about liking Bridget Jones’ Diary to impress me, I’d be furious.
So why do I keep doing it?
Because somewhere deep down, I still think being liked is more important than being honest.

But from now on?
No more pretending.

I like books, wine, bad decisions, emotional intimacy, and carbs.
Not rugby. Not motorsport. Not anything that involves a ball unless it’s made of mozzarella.

The Final Whistle

Dean and I didn’t last.
Shocking, I know.

He later posted a meme that said, “Women who pretend to like sport are the real MVPs.”
I liked it out of spite.
Then blocked him. Out of healing.

Now, when a man says “Are you into rugby?” I say:

“Not unless it involves snacks, sarcasm and zero chance of me getting tackled.”

Because I’d rather be single than fake scream “COME ON ENGLAND” when I don’t even know which direction they’re running.

Stranded in Sharm with a Tattooed Twat

There’s spontaneous, and then there’s “I just met this bloke on Plenty of Fish and now I’m going to Egypt with him tomorrow” spontaneous.

Guess which one I am?

Let me paint you a picture: He wasn’t my usual type. Covered in tattoos, 5’6” if we’re being generous, and had all the emotional depth of a puddle. But he asked me to dinner, and I said yes — partly because I was bored, and partly because I wanted someone to say “good morning” without following it up with “send pic xx”.

Dinner was fine. Not amazing. Think Tesco meal deal when you wanted a Nando’s — edible but depressing. Then, halfway through chewing a limp lettuce leaf, he looked up and asked:

“So, what are you doing tomorrow?”

Now, normal people mean “fancy meeting again?” What he meant was:
“I’ve got a 5-star, all-inclusive holiday to Egypt booked. My ex bailed. Want to come?”

At this point, I didn’t even know his surname.

Did that stop me?
No. No, it did not.

I ran home like I was being chased by a Just Stop Oil protest. Phoned the girls begging for bikinis, sun cream and fake designer sunglasses. Packed like a woman on the run. One wedge, no charger, a top I haven’t worn since 2012 and a curling wand — for reasons even I can’t explain.

The only thing I had going for me? I’d shaved my legs the night before. Divine intervention.

He picked me up the next day. Small talk in the car was... strained. You know the kind:
“Do you like dogs?”
“Do you like hot weather?”
“Do you like your family?”
— as if any of this was relevant when I was clearly about to be murdered in a sand dune.

We landed in Egypt. The hotel? Gorgeous. Pool, buffet, palm trees, and just enough British tourists to make me feel underwhelming. I was ready to relax, embrace my body, and live my best bikini life.

Then he saw me in my swimsuit and said:

“Oh… you hide your weight well.”

Sorry, what?

Followed by:
“Lucky there’s two beds in the room.”

Ah. Romance. You can’t bottle this kind of charm.

Day two: he gets the runs.

Not just “ooh my tummy feels funny” — I’m talking full breakdown in the bathroom. A musical symphony of regret echoing through the tiles. God was clearly on my side.

He was glued to the toilet for three days, while I floated around the pool alone like the saddest all-inclusive guest in history. My £100 spending money was already dwindling — cocktails were £9, and all I could afford by day four was poolside chips and a novelty camel keyring.

I tried to socialise, but no one wants to befriend the solo British girl whose holiday companion sounds like he’s birthing demons in the bathroom.

And when he wasn’t groaning in the ensuite, he was completely ignoring me. Radio silence. I could’ve been a lamppost. A lamppost with SPF 50 and mild heatstroke.

It all hit a new low on day four.

I walked back into the room and heard him on the phone — to his ex.

Laughing.
And calling me…

A walrus.

“I mean she’s alright,” he chuckled, “but she’s a bit of a walrus.”

A walrus?

Mate, the only thing flapping around this hotel is your dignity. I’ve shaved my legs, shared my toiletries, let you use my expensive shampoo after you turned the bathroom into a biohazard — and now I’m being compared to an aquatic mammal?

The journey home was silent. Not even the complimentary peanuts could break the awkward. I was sunburnt, emotionally bruised, and bloated from bread rolls and betrayal.

When we landed, he did what all emotionally stunted men do:
Sent a bouquet of apology flowers.

No card. Just flowers.
As if a bunch of garage carnations could erase the psychological damage.

I stood in my kitchen — flowers in one hand, suitcase in the other — and made a promise to myself.

No more.

No more desperation dressed up as adventure.
No more mistaking red flags for “mysterious.”
No more letting men who think “you hide your weight well” is a compliment anywhere near my passport.

I deserved better. And more importantly, I would do better.

So I threw the flowers in the bin, ran a bath, and let the regret dissolve like that cheap aftersun I’d panic-bought in duty-free.

Final Thoughts: No Such Thing as a Free Holiday

If a man offers you a luxury trip after one dinner, ask yourself:

Do I know his surname?
Do I have an exit plan?
Am I emotionally prepared to be compared to a walrus in another time zone?

If the answer to any of those is “no” — stay home.

And pack your self-respect before you even think about packing that curling wand.

Father, Son & the Holy Sht

There’s being stood up, and then there’s being daddy up.

Let me paint the scene: It was a cold Tuesday, I was hopeful, hungry, and wearing a push-up bra so determined it had me breathing through my ears. I'd matched with a guy online—we’ll call him Tyler—who looked like he did carpentry shirtless and cried during Pixar films. He was giving rugged-but-sensitive, gym-but-also-gentleman. The kind of man who could assemble flat-pack furniture and my mental health at the same time.

We’d messaged for a week. He was sweet. Witty. Replied with actual punctuation. And his pictures? Chef’s kiss. Strong jawline, tan, beard you’d lose a small child in. One had him holding a fish (standard), another shirtless at a beach bonfire (regrettably hot), and the third—my favourite—him in a suit, no tie, that smouldering “I’ve got secrets and insurance” kind of stare.

Basically, I was ready to risk it all.

We arranged to meet at a nice pub—not fancy, but respectable enough to justify shaving my legs and wearing jeans I had to do a high kick to get into.

I arrived ten minutes early, glowing with optimism and MAC setting spray. Five minutes later, a man limps through the door with a pint already in hand. On crutches. And grey-haired.

At first I thought maybe he’d taken a tumble. Rugby injury? Gym accident? Stairgate-related chaos?

Then he smiled.

And I realised something truly horrific.

This was not Tyler.

This was Tyler's dad.

He walked straight over to me like it was the most natural thing in the world. Sat down with a sigh, propped the crutches against the table, and said, “Hope you don’t mind—dodgy hip. Old football injury. I’m John.”

JOHN.

JOHN?!

I blinked. Twice. “I’m sorry, who?”

He chuckled, as if he was the one being catfished. “Tyler’s my son. We share the profile.”

I’m sorry, what in the midlife crisis incest is this?

Now, normally this is where a normal person would politely excuse themselves, fake a family emergency, or throw a breadstick and sprint. But me? Oh no. I stayed. Because part of me—the feral content-creating part—knew I was in the middle of a story too good to walk away from.

Also, I’d already ordered a drink, and I’d skipped lunch. So, you know. Morals are flexible when carbs are involved.

I took a sip of wine the size of my self-worth and asked the obvious: “Why… would you be using your son’s pictures?”

John: “We look alike!”

Sir. No, you do not.

Tyler looked like he did pull-ups for fun and moisturised. John looked like he did crosswords and fell asleep during Antiques Roadshow. The only similarity was that both had two eyes and one face. That’s it.

Apparently, Tyler had set up the dating profile as a joke for his dad after a divorce. But instead of uploading actual photos of John, he uploaded his own.

Why? “He thought it’d get more attention.”

So… he sent women to meet his dad, thinking what? They’d just shrug and go with it?

At this point, I’m convinced the entire family needs therapy and an Ofcom investigation.

I asked John how many dates he’d been on like this. He shrugged and said, “A few.” Then added, “You’re by far the prettiest though.” Which was probably meant to be charming but felt more like being hit on by a retired geography teacher with gout.

Here’s the thing. John wasn’t a bad guy. He was sweet, polite, and told me I reminded him of his niece, but hotter, which I’m still trying to emotionally unpack.

He talked about his allotment. Showed me pictures of his dog (also called Tyler—kill me). Asked if I’d ever tried line dancing. And at one point, genuinely suggested we “go out again”

Was it the worst date I’ve been on?

No.

Was it the most confusing? Yes. 10/10. Brain still buffering.

After about 45 minutes of resisting the urge to climb into the nearest bin, I told John I had to leave because my friend had just gone into labour. Which, to be fair, is the same excuse my dignity gave when it left my body somewhere around the phrase “You look just like your son, honest.”

He stood up (slowly, very slowly—that hip is holding on by faith alone), gave me a hug, and whispered, “You’d make a lovely daughter-in-law.”

Sir, please.

On the way home, I messaged Tyler. Yes, THE Tyler. The original catfish prince. I said:

“Just out of curiosity, do you know your dad is using your pictures to try and pull women?”

He replied:

“Lol yeah. You stayed though, didn’t you?” Blocked. Immediately.

Don’t pass Go. Don’t collect my attention span. Just BLOCKED, baby.

What did I learn?

Never trust a man whose profile only shows one side of his face.

Don’t ignore the “old soul” vibes in messages that mention shed maintenance.

Always Google the name if it feels too good to be true. If LinkedIn says, “Retired Plumber & Widowed Granddad,” trust it.

So to wrap up: I got catfished by two generations of the same family, emotionally manhandled by a dodgy hip, and flirted with by a man who once used the phrase “back in my day.”

And yes, I finished my wine before leaving.

Because I may be emotionally unstable, but I’m not stupid.

Electrically Kissed and Emotionally Ghosted

I’m not saying I’m dramatic, but I once kissed a man so electric I genuinely thought I’d short-circuited my central nervous system. You know that zap you get when you touch a dodgy plug socket with wet hands? That was his kiss. Except instead of flipping a fuse board, he flipped my expectations and then vanished like a magician with a Tinder account.

It was the kind of date that tricks you into thinking the universe has finally stopped messing with you. He looked like he flossed and recycled. He laughed at my jokes. I didn’t have to pretend to be cooler, dumber, or more into football than I actually am. We ordered food, talked for hours, and when he kissed me outside the bar, I swear to God I heard a pop. I thought the streetlamp had exploded.

My toes curled. My brain screamed. My uterus began redecorating.

It was that rare kind of kiss that makes you believe in fate, chemistry, and maybe even cutting your situationship roster down to one. There was hand-on-neck action. There was breathlessness. I may have blacked out and come back fluent in French.

The electricity between us was so intense I half-considered plugging my dying phone into his chest. I even said out loud, “I feel like I could charge my phone off this connection.” He laughed. I laughed. The world paused. A woman clapped. (Okay, that part’s a lie, but it felt like it.)

On the way home, I mentally deleted every dating app. I planned our wedding song (Stevie Wonder), envisioned matching mugs (“Her plug / His socket”), and started looking at spa breaks for couples who’ve known each other twelve minutes but are spiritually married.

I was in such a high-vibration state I told my taxi driver about the kiss. He looked like he regretted picking me up.

I sent my friends voice notes titled “HE’S THE ONE”, with 43-second breakdowns of how he laughed, how he got me, and how I didn’t even suck in during dinner because I felt that safe. One friend replied: “You say this every three month.” Rude, but also correct.

I waited. And waited.

No text. No emoji, which is bare minimum behaviour unless you’re a serial killer or a man with full-blown emotional eczema.

I gave it a day. Then two. Then I sent a light-hearted message: “Still buzzing from that kiss. If I start glowing in the dark, I’ll invoice you x”

No reply. Sent another one a few days later: “Do you know CPR? Because that kiss stopped my heart and now the silence is finishing the job.”

Still. Nothing.

I checked to see if I’d been blocked. I had. I’d been electrocuted and executed in the same week.

I mean, what was that? Did I kiss him so well he panicked and joined a monastery? Did my breath smell like future commitment and he wasn’t ready? Or did I just go full IKEA catalogue in my head while he was mentally uninstalling Match?

I scrolled back through my texts for clues. Nothing weird. No sudden proposals. No “Hey, I named our future baby after that garlic bread we shared.” I was charming. I was breezy. I only sent one meme of two skeletons kissing under a full moon.

Honestly, if I were him, I’d block me too… just to preserve my own peace. I’m a lot. But I’m the kind of “a lot” that gets you through a global crisis and leaves your mum saying, “She’s a bit mad, but I like her.”

I spent two hours that night trying to remember his last name. I typed variations into Instagram like some sort of thirsty cyber detective.

My friends were supportive. One said, “At least the kiss was good.” Another said, “Maybe he died?” which, let’s be honest, is something I’ve genuinely considered before. It’s always easier to imagine they perished in a freak pogo-stick accident than admit they just didn’t fancy you.

I told myself: “It’s not rejection, it’s redirection.”

But it was rejection. A sexy, silent, sucker-punching one.

I’m still out here, one kiss away from believing I’ve met my husband. I will get my hopes up. I will imagine us buying matching dressing gowns. And if you kiss me like your lips are made of lightning, I will start Googling names that go with yours.

That’s not weakness. That’s delusion with flair.

The One Where I Mounted a Fireman’s Pole

They say never meet your heroes. I say never try to seductively slide down a fireman’s pole at 2 a.m. wearing no knickers, tipsy on Jägerbombs, with the pelvic floor strength of a jellyfish.

It started, as most of my disasters do, in a pub. I was out with a friend, minding my own business (i.e. flirting poorly and ordering chips like they were on prescription), when we got chatting to a group of men who turned out to be actual firemen. Real-life heroes. Muscles, bravery, high-vis trousers. I was already planning the wedding. Theme: flames of passion. Buffet: catered by M and S.

So, when one of them casually invited us back to the fire station for an “afterparty,” I did what any delusional single woman with a vivid imagination and low alcohol tolerance would do—I said yes.

Now, I expected steamy locker room vibes. Maybe some slow-motion water hose action. At the very least, a tasteful calendar shoot in progress. What I got instead was five half-naked men snoring in recliner chairs, one with a Dorito stuck to his nipple. Another had drooled into his own belly button. It was less Chicago Fire, more London Retirement Home: The Emergency Services Years.

But I was too far in. I'd already texted my friend, “I THINK I’M GONNA MARRY A FIREMAN .” Turning back now would mean admitting defeat.

Then I saw it. The pole. Tall, Shiny and promising all the grace and glory of a woman who knows what she's doing with her life. I did not. But I had watched Flashdance three times and once hung upside down on a pole in Butlins, so I felt spiritually qualified.

And, importantly, I was wearing a fireman’s helmet. Not for safety. For style.

I was also commando, because earlier I’d made the strategic decision to avoid a VPL (visible panty line, for those blessed with self-respect). I wanted my skirt to scream “hot girl at emergency services mixer,” not “M&S multi-pack."

So, there I stood at the top of the pole. Somewhere between Bridget Jones and actual danger.

“Do it!” my friends whisper yelled. She was half-asleep, eating a leftover kebab like it was the Eucharist.

I took a deep breath. Adjusted the helmet. Licked my lips like a woman about to do something unforgettable.

“FIRE!” I screamed and launched myself down the pole.

There was no sensual spin, no elegant glide. What there was, however, was intense thigh friction and the sound of skin squeaking against metal like an anxious dolphin stuck in a lift shaft.

Turns out, commando doesn’t give you pole-dancer agility. It gives you a heat rash and a burn mark that suspiciously looks like Australia.

Halfway down, my thighs gave up entirely. Welded themselves shut like two sweaty clams in a heatwave. I didn’t slide—I shuffled, inch by inch, like a constipated squirrel descending a tree.

My face was red. My armpits were crying. I started laughing so hard I lost what limited bladder control I had left. A trickle. Then a dribble. Then full-on “someone set off a hose” territory.

I made it to the bottom, panting, legs trembling, laughing in that semi-hysterical way you do when you’ve just embarrassed yourself in front of an audience of unconscious civil servants.

“Wooooo hooooo!” I cried. “That was… fun?”

A man stirred in his recliner. Looked at me. Blinked. Went back to sleep.

My friend clapped once and muttered, “You’re an icon,” then immediately went back to texting a guy named Matt who she swore was “like, emotionally available but also owns a sweet shop.”

I sat on a plastic chair in the kitchen, helmet now lopsided, thighs on fire, wondering if you can get a tetanus jab for pride. The fantasy was well and truly over. Firemen were no longer sexy—they were drooling men who ate instant noodles and didn’t even flinch when a woman fake-evacuated down their work equipment.

I booked a taxi home. But first—we stopped at McDonald’s. Because if you’ve just performed a tragic interpretive dance down a vertical metal tube with no underwear on and possibly left DNA on council property, you deserve a warm apple pie and a McFlurry.

We sat in silence, the smell of a warm apple pie healing our souls.

“I thought I liked firemen,” I said, sipping my Diet Coke. “But I think I just like men who wear tight trousers and carry big hoses.”

“Same,” she replied. “I tried to kiss one and he sneezed in my eye.”

We both nodded solemnly.

So that was the end of my fireman fantasy. No burning passion. No uniformed love affair. Just friction burns, a mild urinary incident, and a painful reminder that I am not—and never will be—the kind of woman who seductively slides down anything.

But you know what? That’s okay.

Because while I didn’t get a fairytale, I did get a story. One that I can tell forever. One that ends, not in a dramatic firehouse kiss, but with me waddling out of a McDonald’s at 3 a.m. with hot thighs, cold ice cream, and a renewed appreciation for knickers with reinforced gussets.

And next time I get invited somewhere exciting, I’ll check if it involves exercise, sleep-deprived men, or vertical surfaces before agreeing.

Failed Both CPR and Flirting

There are moments in life that define you. Some people win awards. Some save lives. Some discover their life’s purpose through quiet introspection and meaningful work.

I? I mounted a plastic corpse and gave it mouth-to-mouth like I was auditioning for Love Island: Coronary Edition.

Working in a school means being First Aid trained, which sounds noble and important but you remember that you faint at the sight of your own papercut and once threw up because someone sneezed into a tissue too enthusiastically.

I am squeamish. If you shout, “Someone’s being sick!” I will absolutely shout, “ME TOO!” and then sprint in the opposite direction holding a bin bag and praying for death.

So naturally, when the email came round saying “ALL STAFF MUST ATTEND MANDATORY FIRST AID TRAINING,” I did what any mature adult would do. I panicked, fake-coughed loudly in the staffroom, and Googled “how to legally avoid CPR training without losing your job.”

Unfortunately, HR didn’t accept “intense fear of plastic wounds” as a medical exemption, and before I knew it, I was sat in a musty school hall, surrounded by my colleagues, staring at a table full of plastic limbs, rubber bandages, and one very attractive Red Cross trainer with arms like a body builder and a voice like melted butter.

Let me be clear: I had zero interest in First Aid. But I had every intention of giving mouth-to-mouth to something — or someone — by the end of the day.

The session started innocently enough. Bandaging practice. Slings. Washing fake wounds on dolls that looked suspiciously like Annabelle’s second cousins.

Then came The Dummies.

You know the ones — pale, lifeless torsos with gaping mouths, looking like they died halfway through explaining car insurance. The room suddenly smelled like disinfectant and crushed dreams.

“Any volunteers to go first?” the instructor asked, smiling. I think his name was Rob. Or Rich. Or God’s personal gift to women.

I, in a moment of unearned confidence and undeniable lust, stood up.

“I’ll go!” I declared, loudly. Several colleagues turned to stare. One said, “Are you feeling okay?” I wasn’t.

I marched up to the dummy like it had insulted my family. I had a plan. Be impressive. Be assertive. Be someone who can rescue a choking pensioner and look sexy doing it.

Reader, I was none of those things.

Instead of kneeling gracefully beside the dummy like a professional, I straddled it. Full-on. Legs either side, like I was about to lasso a bull or whisper dirty secrets into its plastic ear.

I leaned down. Took a breath and blew so hard, like I was trying to inflate a paddling pool at a children’s party in under 60 seconds. My cheeks puffed out, my lungs collapsed, and my face turned a worrying shade of beetroot. Twenty years of smoking caught up with me mid-exhale, and I wheezed out something that sounded like a dying kettle.

I sat up proudly.

“That’s the way to do it!” I said, grinning like a woman who’d just saved a life and seduced a man in one breathless go.

It was not the way to do it.

“Right…” said Rob/Rich/Hot Man, stepping forward like he was approaching a very confused toddler on a bouncy castle. “So… you don’t straddle the casualty.”

“And we don’t blow like we’re trying to start a leaf blower,” he added, gently prising me off the dummy.

Apparently, the correct method is to kneel beside the person, tilt their head, pinch the nose, open a little plastic safety bag (which I had launched over my shoulder like a used tissue), and then deliver gentle, controlled breaths.

Then, with your hands interlocked, you press the chest firmly to the rhythm of Stayin’ Alive — which feels ironic when you’ve just performed a one-woman CPR rodeo show to the rhythm of embarrassing death.

I stepped back. Colleagues were trying very hard not to laugh. My thighs were shaking from adrenaline and ill-placed ambition. Rob gave me a pity nod. I had done it.

I had singlehandedly sexually assaulted a training dummy in front of the entire school staff and a man who used to model gym wear for money. I failed the test understandably.

“Don’t worry,” the admin woman whispered kindly. “We’ll do a catch-up session next month.” I nodded and tried not to cry.

Then I did what any woman who has publicly straddled a medical mannequin would do: I walked home, bought two Freddos, and asked myself deep philosophical questions like:

Why am I like this?

Could I sue the Red Cross for emotional damage?

Should I start dating blind men?

I lay on the sofa, reflecting on my life choices. Why am I still single? Well, maybe because when given an opportunity to shine, I choose chaos. Maybe because I flirt like a Labrador with brain fog. Maybe because I once confused anaphylaxis for “some kind of Italian pasta.” Not everyone is destined to be a hero. Some of us are just meant to provide comic relief during CPR training and then spend the next three days wondering if the dummy will press charges. Flirting is not my spiritual gift. I may be many things—funny, loyal, able to name all McFlurry flavours by smell alone—but sexy rescuer-in-training? That ship has sunk, caught fire, and been resuscitated by someone with a real qualification.

Misplaced My Personality

Once upon a time, there was a size 18 girl with boobs so big they entered a room five minutes before she did. She had a laugh that could be heard from the car park and the confidence of a Love Island contestant with amnesia. That girl? She was me. A walking, talking GSOH (God’s Strongest Offensive Humour), wrapped in Spanx and blind optimism.

Fast forward a few months, a hundred boiled eggs, and the tragic death of every carb in my kitchen — and I’d done it. I’d lost the weight. I was a size 10. Hallelujah. Cue the fireworks, the confetti, the standing ovation from diet culture. The fat, funny girl had left the building.

Problem is... she took my bloody personality with her.

No one warns you that dropping three dress sizes can also strip away your charm. Somewhere between squeezing into gym leggings and Googling “low-fat wine,” I became what I can only describe as... beige. Not skinny enough to be smug, not curvy enough to be iconic. Just mildly toned and emotionally confused.

Where once I used my boobs like battering rams at bars, now I just sort of... stand there. Awkward. Arms crossed. Turtleneck high. Like an unpaid intern at her own life.

You see, being the “fat friend” came with certain skills. You had to be funny. Loud. Flirty. You perfected the art of being “the vibe.” You walked into a room with a joke in your back pocket and a laugh already escaping your lips. It was like being on stage 24/7, only with more snacks. And now?

I feel like someone’s given me the lead role in a drama I didn’t audition for. No script. No direction. Just a slightly hollow version of myself, clinging to herbal tea and hoping someone notices I’ve lost weight without me having to say it first. Which let’s be honest, I still do. Subtly. Like a whisper: “Oh this? Just something I got after the weight loss.” Loud enough to be heard, quiet enough to seem humble.

She doesn’t care that I’ve lost four stone. She still occasionally shows me the size 18 But let me tell you, the mirror is a gaslighting little cow.

girl. You know, just for old time’s sake. I’ll catch my reflection and think, “Who invited her?” But that girl doesn’t go away easily. She’s in my head every time I reach for a hanger and instinctively skip the size 10. She’s in the way I still panic when someone suggests rollercoasters or plastic chairs. She’s the reason I still do that awkward “let me sit on the edge of the group photo so I can lean in and hide my arms” move.

Old habits die harder than my love life.

And speaking of love — let’s talk about the real plot twist: I’m getting less attention now. LESS. I repeat: the glow-up has had the social impact of a wet flannel. Back when I was bigger, I was a whole vibe. Men would say things like, “You’ve got a really sexy confidence” (translation: “You’re not my usual type but I’d still definitely try it”). They’d message me with energy. Flirting! Compliments! Light stalking!

I’ve even stopped using dating apps because I just don’t know who I’m selling anymore. The fat, flirty firecracker? She’s gone. And this new girl? She’s just... fine. Not spicy enough to be intimidating, not chaotic enough to be interesting. A bit of rice with no seasoning. Quinoa in human form. Good skin, dead eyes.

Maybe it’s because when you’re bigger, you almost must be magnetic. You’re not allowed to be boring and fat — society won’t stand for it. So, you become the funny one. The cool one. The “bloody legend” everyone loves on a night out. But when you lose weight, people expect you to magically be sexy and mysterious. Problem is, I don't know how to do mysterious. I’m the kind of woman who narrates her own pap smear. Sexy isn’t my default setting. I’m either braless and opinionated or asleep.

And now, I’m scared of taking up space. I used to walk into rooms with hips swinging like I was being followed by a Beyoncé soundtrack. Now I sort of... shuffle in. Quiet. Awkward. Hoping no one notices me chewing on a protein bar like a resentful hamster.

Even my wardrobe’s confused. I have a drawer full of size 10 clothes that scream “confident, clean girl aesthetic” — but I wear the same oversized dressing gown every day like a Victorian widow. There’s something deeply ironic about working this hard to lose weight just to cover it all up like a mystery prize on a game show.

And it’s easy to pretend you’re OK. Easy to slap on some bronzer, smile politely, and post a before-and-after on Instagram with a caption like: “Just feeling so much healthier these days” when you’re one sad thought away from deep-throating a baguette and rage-watching Bridget Jones.

Do I feel better physically? Sure. I can walk upstairs without sounding like I’m in labour. My thighs don’t start fires in summer anymore. But emotionally? I miss me. I miss being the woman who could make a whole beer garden laugh without worrying if her arms looked big while doing it.

Turns out, when you lose your “flaws,” you also risk losing your fuel.

So here I am, trying to find the balance. Learning to flirt again, maybe quietly. Learning to accept that being smaller doesn’t have to mean being smaller in personality. Maybe the confidence isn’t in the cup size or the waistline or even the compliments. Maybe it’s in saying, “Yeah, I’ve changed — but I’m still the main character.”

And she’s still funny. Still flirty. Still inappropriate at dinner parties.

Just now in a smaller dress and slightly more afraid of carbs.

First Date After the Disappearing Act

It finally happened. I re-entered the dating world. Armed with my new size 10 jeans, low-rise self-esteem, and one blurry full-length mirror selfie, I downloaded Tinder, where everyone claims to be "really into hiking" and emotionally available (spoiler: they're not).

After much swiping, I matched with Ben. Ben had a beard, a dog, and a suspiciously wholesome photo making sourdough. I decided he was either perfect or a pathological liar. Either way, I hadn’t flirted in 17 months and was about one cat away from a rebrand, so I agreed to meet him for drinks.

I panicked before the date, obviously. My wardrobe, though technically “small,” looked like it belonged to a substitute drama teacher who’s just discovered crystals. I ended up in skinny jeans I couldn’t breathe in and a crop top that felt illegal on someone with the cleavage of two deflated party balloons. But I did it. I left the house. Sober. Voluntarily. In real clothes.

Ben was... fine. Not fireworks, but not a murderer, which is now my dating bar. The issue was: I forgot how to flirt. Like genuinely, forgot. All my old lines had vanished. My entire personality was on mute. At one point, I nervously complimented his eyebrows. His eyebrows. Then I laughed. Too loud. Snorted. Knocked over my drink. It was a whole scene.

This used to be my arena. I was the fat girl with the big boobs and even bigger banter. I could flirt with a table if it had good wood grain. But now, I was just... trying not to cry into a gin and tonic because my Spanx were digging into my ribs and I couldn’t stop wondering if he thought I looked better online.

He didn’t kiss me goodbye. Just said, “You're really... interesting,” and walked off like he was unsure if I was real.

I got home, took off the jeans (with pliers), sat on the floor in my dressing gown and thought maybe I’m not ready. Or maybe I just need to stop waiting for weight loss to turn me into someone else.

Because the truth is, I thought being skinny would fix everything. Confidence. Men. Life. But turns out, I’m still a walking red flag with a delivery addiction and too many feelings. Only now in a smaller bra.

When Your Glow-Up Gets Heckled

There are humbling moments in life. Tripping up the stairs in public. Accidentally liking your ex’s new girlfriend’s Instagram reel from 2018. Mistaking a pigeon for a plastic bag and dodging it like you’re in The Matrix. But nothing — and I mean nothing — compares to the unique humiliation of running into the ex. The one. The man. The origin story of your entire emotional breakdown.

It had been nine years. Nine whole years since he left me for a woman with the personality of an oat milk latte and the thighs of someone who uses the word “wellness” unironically. I had not seen him, heard from him, or stalked him more than once a month (which is very healthy, thank you).

Back then, I was heartbroken. Properly. I cried into pasta. I listened to Adele until my Spotify asked if I needed help. I got a tattoo on my neck — “Better to have never met you in my dreams, rather than wake and reach for a hand that is not there” which now, thanks to time and cheap ink, looks more like black blob. Stunning.

So, imagine my shock when I saw him. In the wild. Like a haunted meerkat, I froze. He was walking toward me. With her. HER! The woman he left me for. Still blonde, still smug, still with those creepy yoga arms that look like she’s never eaten cheese.

And there I was holding a Boots carrier bag, wearing dry shampoo and regret, dressed like I was midway through a mental health walk I hadn’t emotionally committed to. I looked down. No time to run. I was in wedges. He spotted me.

Then the worst thing happened. He tapped me on the shoulder. TAPPED ME.

And he said the five words that should absolutely be illegal for an ex to say:

“Wow. I didn’t recognise you.” Pause. Deep breath.

Then, with the kind of smile only sociopaths and men who peaked in 2012 wear, he added:

“Sorry, but… you looked better bigger.”

Reader, I blacked out.

Not literally, but something inside me short-circuited. My soul unplugged itself from the socket and just… walked away. I stood there, blinking, while this man — this human teabag — gave me a pity look like I’d just lost a game show and my dignity in one go.

Let me repeat this is the man who broke my heart so hard i paid money to etch a reminder of my emotional devastation on my actual skin. I carried that pain through Christmases, two terrible haircuts, and an entire pandemic — and he had the audacity to stand there, in his bootcut jeans, and say that?

The only thing that stopped me from going full “this is Sparta” on his kneecaps was the Boots bag. It contained mouthwash and pantyliners. There’s no rage-walking away from that with dignity.

Instead, I laughed. Loudly. Unhinged. Like a woman who’s just witnessed her own villain origin story in real time.

I said, “Cheers, Dave. That really means a lot coming from someone whose best years were sponsored by Hollister.”

Then I walked away, heart pounding, legs shaking, knowing full well my wedge heel was slightly loose, and I could go down at any second.

But here’s the thing. He’s wrong. I didn’t look better bigger. I looked better loved.

Because back then, I was performing. Big girl energy is real —funnier, flirtier, more magnetic. We build personalities big enough to distract from the fact that society keeps trying to make us invisible. And when you’re loved — even badly — you radiate a certain glow, even if it’s mostly built on delusion and highlighter.

Now? I’m smaller. A size 10. More bones, fewer boobs, and a wardrobe that doesn’t know what to do with itself. But I’m not better or worse. I’m just real. Tired. Slightly traumatised. But real.

And as much as I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry into a Greggs sausage roll, I didn’t.

Because something unexpected happened on that walk home: I started to laugh.

Like… really laugh.

At him. At me. At the idea that someone who hadn’t seen me in nearly a decade thought he got to decide what version of me was “better.” As if I’m a bloody software update. As if losing weight also meant losing the right to my own glow.

I didn’t lose my sparkle. I just stopped tap-dancing for men who didn’t know how to love me the first-time round.

Also — side note — how DARE he pretend to care what size I am? This is the same man who once used Korus as a cologne and thought Nando’s counted as fine dining. I let that hurt me.

I went home, peeled off the wedges like a snake shedding trauma, looked at my stupid faded tattoo, and whispered, “oh die, bitch.” Because sometimes healing is petty. Sometimes it’s laughing through the tears. And sometimes, it’s writing a blog, so your ex’s name becomes SEO-linked to your revenge arc forever.

Cars Beeping and Exes Creeping

After my run-in with Tom the Tw*t and his discount yoga Barbie, you’d think I’d crawl into a blanket burrito, cry into a tub of hummus, and stay off the streets. But no. I put on my tightest leggings — the ones that make my bum look like I do squats (I absolutely do not) — and I walked. Through town. Like I was on a mission from God and that mission was: Be hot. Cause chaos. Ignore men.

And do you know what happened?

Cars started beeping.

Yes. Beeping. Not the angry “move, woman!” kind — the beep beep that says, “I see you, mysterious queen of Aldi car park.” I gave them nothing. No smile. No glance. Just sunglasses and trauma. I was the Adele of pedestrian crossings.

Some man shouted, “Oi, sexy!” and for once, I didn’t flinch — because I knew it was for me. I didn’t even look back. Just kept walking like I was on the runway at Paris Fashion Week: Lidl Edition.

Then — because apparently the universe wasn’t done — I get home, open Facebook (aka Digital Hell), and there it is.

“Tom viewed your story.”

Excuse me? Sir, you said I looked better bigger and now you’re watching my story like it’s the season finale of Love Island?

And it wasn’t just him. Three exes had watched it. Including the one who ghosted me after I cooked him lasagna AND gave him a back rub. The audacity. I can't get a text back, but I can get an audience.

Honestly, Facebook Stories are the Wild West. They're where dignity goes to die and exes come to lurk. One even reacted with the flame emoji. THE FLAME EMOJI. Sir, you didn’t even like me when I was lying naked in your bed, but now you’re publicly declaring I’m “fire”? Make it make sense.

I posted again out of sheer spite. I didn’t even look good — just me holding a coffee and wearing sunglasses inside like I was hiding from the police and my feelings. They watched that one too.

And don’t get me started on the men who NEVER made effort when they had me, but now suddenly want to reconnect:

“Hey stranger”
“Wow you’ve changed…”
“You up to much these days? x”

Yes, I’m up to ignoring you with my whole chest.

Where was this energy when I was crying in your passenger seat because you said I was “too intense” for wanting a birthday card?

You know what it is? It's the glow-up. It’s not just about the smaller waist or cheekbones that have finally made an appearance after ten years in hiding. It's the energy. The I don't need your validation anymore, thanks energy. The I'm not waiting around to be picked energy. The kind of glow that makes exes stalk your Instagram like it’s true crime content and leaves men confused at petrol stations.

One even messaged me to say, “You’ve changed.”
Damn right I’ve changed. I used to like you.

Now? I wouldn't share my Wi-Fi password with you.

Let’s talk about that “change,” shall we?

Yes — I’ve gone from size 18 to 10.
Yes — my boobs have deflated like sad balloons at the end of a kid’s party.
Yes — I sometimes walk past shop windows and get confused about who that small woman is before realising it’s me.
But the real change?

I stopped begging to be loved.

I used to shrink myself to fit in. Now I just shrink jeans. I used to flirt to prove I was worth it. Now I flirt for fun — or not at all, because sometimes men are tiring, and I’d rather go home and moisturise my ankles.

So, to the exes still creeping, the Facebook lurkers with nothing better to do, and the man who beeped at me from his Vauxhall Astra with two missing hubcaps — thank you. You’ve reminded me that I may be emotionally unstable, but I’m also still a hot mess.

And to the next man who says I looked better “bigger”? I hope your Wi-Fi lags during every football match for the rest of your life.

The BBQ Boob Debacle

There are two types of women in life: those who gracefully sip prosecco at garden parties and those who accidentally flash a nipple during a family BBQ. I, unfortunately, am the latter.

Let me take you back.

It was a sunny Saturday — birds chirping, sausages sizzling, men gathering around a barbecue like it was some sacred man ritual involving fire and tongs. I was invited by a friend, who said, “Just something chill, a few people, bring cider!” What she failed to mention was that her entire extended family would be there, including a very attractive brother I’d never met and would soon emotionally scar.

I wore a maxi dress. Long, floaty, boho — the kind that says, “I am carefree and probably moisturise my elbows.” I had recently lost some weight, so the top half, which once fit snugly, now had the structural integrity of a hammock made from wet tissue. I added a denim jacket, thinking it would hold everything in place. It did not.

Fast-forward to hour two: I’m tipsy, sunburnt, and aggressively flipping burgers with a confidence I had no right to possess. That’s when I spot him — The Brother — walking toward me, holding two ciders, and smiling like he’s never known trauma.

He’s tall, tanned, with hair that says, “I do casual push-ups and pretend not to care.” We lock eyes. He hands me a drink. There’s banter. Flirting. I laugh too loudly. The dress starts to shift. I feel it. Gravity working overtime. But I’m too caught up in pretending I’m the cool, effortlessly sexy girl who doesn’t still cry during Disney films.

Then it happens.

A rogue gust of wind. A lift of fabric. A flash of something that wasn’t meant for outdoor viewing.

My entire left boob — entire — makes an unsolicited guest appearance.

I try to recover by yanking the dress up like I’m ringing a church bell, knocking over a table of condiments and sending ketchup flying across his shorts. I shriek. Someone yells “Whoa!” A child cries. A sausage hits the grass. It is chaos.

He looks stunned and I look mortified. My nipple looks overexposed and underappreciated.

For reasons I still can’t explain, I blurt out, “that’s not even my good one!”

And then I run. Not walk. Run. Through the garden, around the trampoline, past an elderly aunt who gasps and clutches her rosary like she’s just witnessed demonic activity.

I lock myself in the downstairs loo and spend ten minutes whispering to myself, “You are the wind. You are peace. You are not a flashing mess of emotional instability.”

Eventually, my friend knocks on the door and says, “Babe, it’s fine. He said it was nice.”

OH, GOOD. My accidental wardrobe malfunction got a 3-star Yelp review.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the BBQ. I left with my dignity clinging to me like the ketchup on my ankle. For weeks I avoided him. Until…

i matched with him on tinder. Swear on my fake tan. He messaged first:

“Hey, didn’t we meet once? At a BBQ? I feel like I’ve seen you… somewhere…”

Sir. You’ve seen my soul and also my left areola.

I unmatched so fast I gave myself a cramp.

Moral of the story? Always test your dress in front of a fan before socialising. And never trust a maxi dress after cider. She’s a loose woman with no loyalty.

A BBC-Level Breakdown

There comes a time in every woman’s life when she must accept a cold, truth:

You are the family embarrassment.

Not the fun one. Not the mysterious cousin with cool sunglasses and tax evasion rumours. No — the full-blown cautionary tale. The reason there’s now a WhatsApp group called “Don’t Let Her Near the Wine.”

Let me explain.

It started, as these things often do, with confidence. That dangerous little voice in your head that whispers, “Go on babe, dance on the table. You’ve lost weight, you’re practically nimble.”

I was at a family do. A proper knees-up. Garden fairy lights, dodgy playlist, at least three aunties arguing over who brought the good hummus. I’d had... a few. Not enough to see double, but enough to think I could handle karaoke.

I could not.

It began with Madonna. Like a Virgin. I don’t know why. I haven’t been a virgin since the Nokia 3310 was a cultural icon. But there I was, mic in hand, giving it the full pelvic thrust like I was auditioning for a hen party cruise ship.

People clapped. Egged me on.

And then — because confidence is a lying witch — I climbed on the table.

A fold-out. From Argos.

With the structural integrity of my last relationship.

I gave it everything. Hair flicks. Hip action. A cheeky wink at someone’s dad. I was the Beyoncé of Bognor Regis.

Until I wasn’t.

Until my foot slipped in some rogue potato salad and I faceplanted into a cheese board.

I hit the floor like EastEnders’ closing credits — DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN DUN DUNNNNN.

But did I get up gracefully? No. No, I did not. I projectile vomited on the landing.

My cousin screamed. My aunt cried. A child shouted, “Mummy, she’s dying!”

Spoiler: I wasn’t. Just very, very drunk. And possibly concussed.

They put me on the sofa like a tragic Victorian widow, someone’s uncle waving a tea towel over me while I whispered, “Tell Madonna… I tried.”

And as I lay there, holding an ice pack to my head and smelling faintly of Babybel and regret, I had a moment. A clarity. The kind of deep emotional realisation that only hits when you’re covered in your own sick and shame. I am living a soap opera.

Seriously. Every chapter of my life ends with the EastEnders duff duff in my head. I can’t even buy milk without accidental drama. Lost weight? Cue a run-in with my ex and his emotional sledgehammer. Go on a date? End up flashing someone’s sibling and dodging family BBQs forever. Feel confident at a party? Smash my skull, barf like a fountain, and become the subject of a family intervention.

I don’t need therapy. I need a writing credit and theme music.

But here’s the twist, Diary — the real plotline no one saw coming. I’m starting to love myself.

No, not in the TikTok wellness influencer way. Not “I drink green smoothies and do yoga by candlelight.” I mean messy, chaotic, slightly wobbly self-love. I love myself even when I fall off tables. Even when I wake up with a bruised eyebrow and no memory of who saw my pants.

Because yeah, I might be That Girl. The one who always makes a scene, wears the wrong thing, says too much, cries at birthday cards and flirts with taxi drivers.

But I’m also the girl who’s finally stopped shrinking herself — literally and emotionally.

I used to think being loveable meant being quiet. Controlled. Perfect. Now I know being loveable means being real. And real sometimes looks like foundation in your hair, gin breath, and one exposed boob caught on CCTV.

So, to my family: I apologise for nothing. Except the vomit. That’s fair. And to the man I winked at while covered in hummus — call me. Or don’t. You’ve seen too much.

And to my future? I hope it’s messy. Loud. Bold. With dramatic exits and even more dramatic outfits.

Because if I’m going to be the walking EastEnders cliffhanger, I might as well own it.

I Wore White and Regretted Everything

There’s a certain kind of confidence — let’s call it pre-Prosecco delusion — that makes a woman think she can wear white to a hen do.

Let me be clear: I was not the bride. I wasn’t even a bridesmaid. I was a plus-one with a Primark suitcase and an over-inflated ego. But something inside me — possibly the ghost of every bad decision I’ve ever made — whispered, “Go on. Wear the white jumpsuit. What could possibly go wrong?”

Spoiler alert: everything.

It began like all classy hen dos: on a packed train to London 14 women in matching sashes, clinking cans of rosé at 10:17am, and shouting “WOOOOO!” every time we passed a cow. I was already sweating. Not from excitement — from fear. Because my white jumpsuit? Was tight. I’m talking vacuum sealed. One wrong move and I’d split the crotch like Moses parting the Red Sea.

By 2pm, someone had already lost a lash. By 4pm, I’d discovered my jumpsuit was see-through when hit by sunlight. By 6pm, I was clinging to a bottle of Echo Falls and shouting, “Let’s make it a night to forget!”

Oh, Melissa. Oh, sweet, naïve idiot.

We hit the bar crawl. Pink cowboy hats. Penis straws. The bride had a blow-up man named Frank tied to her wrist. I tried to dance but my wedge heels had the grip of an elderly labrador on lino. Still, I gave it full body rolls and hair flicks until I hit a wet patch on the floor (mojito or tears, unknown) and did the most elegant slow-motion fall you’ve ever seen. Knees first. Arms flailing. Frank the blow-up man caught me.

I stood up. Bruised. Humbled. Covered in sambuca. And then I saw it.

The beige wedge had snapped.

I was now hopping through Liverpool like a discount flamingo, trying to pretend this was all part of the choreography.

Later, in the club, I found myself in a toilet cubicle with a bridesmaid called Tina, who cried into my jumpsuit about how she thought the groom fancied her. I comforted her like any supportive stranger would: by offering her a tampon and complimenting her eyebrows.

Then came the moment.

I was back on the dance floor, vodka in hand, dancing like no one was filming (they were). The DJ played Single Ladies and I lost all sense of personal boundaries. I dropped into a squat — which, in that jumpsuit, was a war crime — and that was when I felt it.

A breeze. A rip. And something very, very cold.

My jumpsuit had split. From front to back. Like a fancy paper napkin. I was now mooning half of Liverpool in what can only be described as lingerie that had seen things.

Did I go home? Absolutely not.

I borrowed a sash and fashioned a loincloth. I carried on dancing. I kissed someone I thought was hot but turned out to be a taxi driver called Colin who lived with his mum and collected Star wars figures.

We ended the night in a kebab shop. I dropped garlic mayo on my crotch, completing the white jumpsuit's emotional arc. Tina cried again. Frank got deflated. I fell asleep in the hotel bathtub, wrapped in a towel and the last scraps of my dignity.

The next morning? Carnage. Eyelashes on the mirror. Someone missing a shoe. My jumpsuit hanging over a radiator like a crime scene. I looked in the mirror, makeup smudged, hair like a feral pigeon, and whispered:
“This is who I am now.”

But here’s the thing. I don’t even regret it.

Yes, I wore white.
Yes, I danced like I had medical insurance.
Yes, I split the arse clean out of a £26 jumpsuit and flirted with a Star Wars fanatic loudly, questionably but isn’t that the whole point?

So next time someone says, “You’re coming to the hen do, right?” I’ll smile, take a shot, and reply,
“Only if I can wear white.”

The Accidental Text and the Group Chat of Doom

There are moments in life where time slows down. When you feel your soul physically leave your body, hover above your shame-riddled carcass, and whisper, “You did this to yourself.”

This was one of those moments.

It started with a man — obviously. Let’s call him Liam. Because he looked like a Liam: tall, smug, gym membership he used, and a jawline sharp enough to slice through my sense of self-worth.

We had a situationship. Which is code for: I cooked for him, bought new knickers, and emotionally invested like it was a pension. He, in return, texted me “U up?” at 11:58pm every Thursday like clockwork.

Classic.

One day I’d finally had enough. After weeks of being emotionally breadcrumbed, ignored, and benched like I was a footballer with a sprained ego, I decided I was DONE.

But being me, I couldn’t just be done. I needed drama. Closure. Something that screamed growth but also maybe left a few emotional bruises.

So, I typed a message. A beautiful, scathing, Oscar-worthy paragraph. The kind of message you only write while half-drunk on pinot grigio and vengeance.

“I hope she was worth it. I hope you both choke on a protein shake. I’ve spent months lowering my standards like I’m doing the limbo at Satan’s wedding. I’m done being your emotional hot water bottle. Grow up. Shave your back. I was too good for you.”

I was buzzing. Sent it, phone down, dramatic sigh. Felt empowered. Independent. The Beyoncé of passive-aggressive exits.

Except.

I didn’t send it to Liam.

I sent it to...

The FAMILY GROUP CHAT.

Let that sink in.

My auntie Dot. My cousin Dean who works in finance and hasn’t smiled since 2008. All now know about the protein shake betrayal and Liam’s allegedly hairy back.

I opened my phone to eight grey ticks of doom.

My Cousin:
“Melissa… who’s Liam and why are you limbering in hell?”

Auntie Dot:
“Choke on a protein shake? Are you alright, love?”

Dean:
Thumbs up emoji (psychopath)

I tried to unsend. Too late. My brother screenshotted it and renamed the group chat to “Hot Water Bottle & The Hairy Backed Man.”

I considered fleeing the country. Googled “cheap flights to Albania” while sobbing into a KitKat Chunky.

Later that night, Liam messaged me.

“Hey, just saw your post on Insta. You look amazing. Wanna come over?”

I nearly threw my phone in the bin.

This man had emotionally waterboarded me for weeks I send a digital monologue of feminist rage to my relatives, and he still has the audacity to booty call me?

I replied with the only thing I had left:
“Ask your new protein shake girlfriend.”
And blocked him.

Then texted my cousin:
“I’m okay. Just growing.”
To which she replied,
“Grow quieter next time, the cat was scared.”

So, moral of the story?

Always double check your recipients before pressing send. Or better yet take the advice my therapist gave me:

“Write it, screenshot it, send it to your best friend, and NEVER to Auntie Dot.”

The Nude That Wasn't for Me (But Featured My IKEA Sofa)

There are moments in a woman’s life that shape her.
Getting her first bra.
Discovering she can block a man and receiving a rogue nude from an ex that includes her old sofa.

Let me paint you a picture. (Pun fully intended.)

It’s a quiet Thursday. I’m being good. No stalking exes, no crying in bathrobes, no pretending I’m too emotionally unavailable to answer my boss’s emails.

Then my phone buzzes. It’s HIM.

The Ex. Capital T, capital E. The one who wore loafers with no socks and told me I “loved too hard” as if that was a bad thing and not just a polite way of saying I brought him snacks in bed.

Now we hadn’t spoken in over a year. Not since the breakup where I said, “No hard feelings,” and sent a group of psychic women £12.99 to hex him.

The message opens with:

“Hey… just thinking of you”

My first thought? Block.
My second? Drama.

So obviously I click.

AND THERE IT IS.

Full. Frontal. Shot. In HD.

Him. Standing completely nude and I mean completely, like Eve-before-the-apple bare in a pose that can only be described as “wannabe OnlyFans energy” ... next to my old IKEA sofa.

SOFA.

The grey one. The one we built together during our “honeymoon phase” and fought over because he refused to read the manual. The one I left behind when we broke up because he promised to look after it. (He lied. It looked distressed. Like it had seen things.)

But here it was. Front and centre.

Like a witness in a crime scene.

I stared. In disbelief. Not at the eh-hem situation up front but at the audacity of the man to send a nude that included the remains of our joint furniture custody battle.

Worse?

He captioned it:

“Still got the sofa. Miss you.”

I SCREAMED.

WHO sends their ex a saucy sofa cameo?

I zoomed in.
The armrest had a stain. I prayed it was tea.
There was a cushion I bought from TK Maxx in the background.
Suddenly I felt like I’d been emotionally and visually mugged.

Now, being the mature, evolved woman I am — I did the only reasonable thing:
I screenshotted it, cropped the sofa, and sent it to the group chat with:

“Our son’s been kidnapped. IKEA custody violation confirmed.”

The replies were instant:

“Why is his belly button angry?”

“IKEA called. They want the cushion back.”

“Zoom in… is that a Funko Pop on the shelf??”

But the best one? My best friend, God bless her, said:

“This man just tried to seduce you using FURNITURE.”

I replied to him.

Not to comment on his lack of shame, or the lighting (which was horrific), but simply with:

“Next time, dust the shelf and remove my throw pillow.”

Then I blocked him. Again.

So, here’s what I learned:

If a man sends you a nude next to your old sofa, it’s not a compliment. It’s a red flag with flatpack assembly.
Never date a man who refuses to buy his own furniture they’ll haunt you in their pants.
And always, always, make sure the IKEA receipt is in your name.

The Disastrous Return of Melissa Jayne: Dating Edition

(Or: How I Confused a Red Flag for a Blanket and Took a Nap in It)

So, it happened. I started dating again.
Someone alert the tabloids, the local support group, and maybe my therapist (who’s currently on maternity leave and thriving, because after a long hiatus of Netflix, mismatched pyjamas, and occasionally yelling “no” at Tinder, I re-entered the dating arena fringe curled, Spanx deployed, and delusion levels dangerously high.

And what better way to dip my toes back into the treacherous waters of romance than by choosing someone completely unsuitable? I’m talking wrong postcode, wrong vibe, wrong taste in women. The man literally told me to my face that his “type” was dark-skinned, gym-toned fitness queens.

I’m a pale, cake-loving woman who breaks a sweat putting on tights. A woman who once got out of breath bending over to unplug the hoover but did I take his preferences as a hint? Did I think, “Ah, maybe not the one”?
No. I took it as a challenge.
Because deep in the depths of my romantic delusion, I believed I could win him over with enough bronzer, squats, and sparkling personality. I thought I’d be the exception. Spoiler: I was not.

From day one, it was all wrong.
He swore constantly. Not in a sexy, bad-boy way. More in a “are you rehearsing for EastEnders?” kind of way. Every sentence was an F-bomb wrapped in a red flag, and I cried more than I laughed. Which is impressive, considering I once sobbed during a Nando’s ad. (It was the chicken. It looked so loved.)

This wasn’t hormonal. This was soul-level sadness.
This was me trying to make a cardboard cutout of a man feel like home.

He was emotionally absent, physically half-committed, and spiritually allergic to basic human decency. I was essentially a well-dressed emotional support animal. He’d wheel me out for dinners and events, play “boyfriend” for the night, then shove me back into emotional storage between his protein powders and unread therapy books. I was the human version of “pause until needed.”

And let’s be clear he wasn’t even fit.
He looked like he still used Lynx without irony. His wardrobe was one bath towel and three identical tracksuits. His banter was so dry I needed a bottle of Evian after every conversation. Once, mid-row, I found myself crying and simultaneously thinking:
“Am I really shedding tears over a man who wears socks with sliders?”
Yes. Yes, I was. Tragic, isn’t it?

Oh, how I tried.
I twisted myself into a pretzel of patience.
Shrunk my needs down to fit his ego.
Pretended to like football just so I could sit beside him while he ignored me for 90 full minutes.
I was practically a golden retriever in lip gloss.

I lowered my standards to the floor and he still limbo’s under them.
I gave Oscar-worthy performances in the category of “Chill Girl Who Doesn’t Mind Being Ignored.”
When, in reality, I was spiralling in WhatsApp with screenshots and voice notes like:
“He just said he’s busy…but he’s online…does this mean he hates me or is he just watching a YouTube tutorial on how to destroy my self-esteem?”

The worst part?
I begged.
I, Melissa Jayne, fully grown adult woman with matching cutlery, begged a man who owned one pillow and thought a “date night” was splitting a Domino’s. I pleaded. I wept. I gave tragic, rain-soaked speeches worthy of the West End. I basically starred in my own one-woman performance of Les Misérables: The Relationship Years

The End.
Cue EastEnders drumbeat. Hard cut to black but not before I glance back one last time, smirk, and whisper:

“Thank you for the trauma. It really brought out my personality.”

So here I am no man, no drama, just me. Me and my healing. Me and my group chat cheering every petty win. Me and my overpriced candles that smell like redemption and quiet.

Dating again? Maybe.
Loving again? Possibly.
Tolerating men who treat me like a human accessory? Absolutely not.

Because the truth is, I didn’t lose in love I just finally stopped playing a rigged game. I’m not searching for someone to complete me. I’m already whole. Slightly cracked, possibly flammable, and emotionally dramatic on Tuesdays, but whole, nonetheless.

So, if you’re out there and you’ve ever twisted yourself to fit someone else’s version of “lovable”
Unwind, babe.
You’re not too much.
They were simply too little and to my ex, if you’re reading this (and let’s be honest, you are):
Return my Tupperware and your emotional baggage.
I’m no longer in the lost property business.

CEO of Bad Decisions. CFO of Comebacks. Queen of Cake.

The One Who Just Needed a Babysitter

How a Saturday Date Turned into a Full-Time Role at a Nursery I Never Applied To

So, it happened. Again.

I matched with another seemingly harmless single dad. Seemingly. That word should be a dating red flag. “Seemingly funny.” “Seemingly normal.” “Seemingly hasn’t trapped a woman in his soft play-themed lair.”

It started like all disasters do, well. We’d chatted all week. He used full sentences. No mention of crypto or "alpha energy." Just some solid banter, two selfies that didn’t make me dry heave, and one slightly suggestive message about his homemade carbonara that sent me straight to Tesco for razors and fresh knickers.

He said:
“Come over Saturday. Chill, takeaway, a bottle of wine?”

Chill? Wine? I was there faster than a toddler toward an unattended glitter jar.

I didn’t realise until it was too late that this wasn’t a date.
This was a recruitment process.
For a babysitter.

SATURDAY, 2:00PM: THE ARRIVAL OF DOOM

He pulled up in a Ford Galaxy that looked and smelled like it had been used for transporting livestock and possibly one or two ex-wives.

The inside? A crime scene.

The cup holders were stuffed with half-melted Rice Krispie Squares, a dummy was stuck to the roof (physics unknown), and there were pants children’s pants hanging off the rearview mirror like a warning from the universe.

“Hop in,” he smiled.

I did because I was wearing mascara, had only shaved above the knee and had already told my group chat this man could be The One.

We arrived at his house and before he even touched the front door, it flung open like we were in The Hunger Games: Daddy Edition, out they came.

Children. Like clowns from a very tired clown car.

One was barking. One was pants less. One pointed at me and shouted,
“DAD! SHE’S GOT BOOBIES!”

Yes. Yes, I do. Congratulations on your observational skills, champ.

“This is Melissa,” he said to them.
Just This. Like I was an Amazon delivery someone forgot they ordered.

2:07PM: ABANDON ALL HOPE

I stepped inside and was immediately handed a baby. No explanation. Just “Here you go.” Like I’d walked into Mothercare and asked for the hands-on trial.

“Back in a sec,” he called. “Just chucking a wash on.”

And then,poof,gone.

I was left in the middle of what I can only describe as a soft play area sponsored by Satan. There were children everywhere. All shouting. All sticky. All allergic to shoes, indoor voices and personal space.

One was trying to eat a crayon. Another was arguing with a dog wearing fairy wings. A small boy in a Darth Vader mask kept following me around chanting, “New mummy! New mummy!”

I tried to sit down. Landed on a plastic pony that let out a death rattle. I stood up again immediately and questioned every decision I’d made since downloading Hinge.

3:00PM: THE PANCAKE INCIDENT

“Can we have pancakes?” one of them asked.
“Yeah, Daddy always lets us,” said another.
“You know where the stuff is,” said a third.

No, Susan, I don’t know where the stuff is.
I don’t live here.
I came here to flirt, not open a creche.

Still, like an idiot,I tried.

I found flour. Eggs. Something that may have once been milk. I stood there, whisking sadness, while small humans screamed in surround sound and argued over whose pancake had the most Nutella.

One asked for syrup and ketchup.

Together.

Someone else cried because their pancake wasn’t “circle enough.”
Someone else cried because someone else was crying.
Someone peed.

I peed a little too but that was just fear.

4:15PM: WHERE IS THE MAN I’M DATING?

“Where’s your dad?” I asked the oldest, who looked like he’d already emotionally retired.

“Upstairs,” he said, deadpan. “On the Xbox.”

THE.
XBOX.

This man had invited me over under false pretences. He said, “chill night,” not “assume full custody for the day.” I didn’t sign up to be a key worker.

I climbed the stairs in rage. Opened the door. Found him gaming, headset on, feet up like he wasn’t 40 minutes from a social services callout.

“You alright down there?” he asked.

Yeah. Just babysitting your entire bloodline and trying not to lose my mind while being used as a human climbing frame by three feral children. Fine thanks, babe.

6:00PM: DATE NIGHT, MY ARSE

He eventually came downstairs. Stretched. Stretched. Like he’d done a shift. Then turned to me and said:

“Shall we order a takeaway? Kids will have nuggets.”

Nuggets?

Mate, I need nuggets. I need therapy, a bottle of wine, and a tetanus shot.

We ate in silence, broken only by the sound of the baby snoring on my chest, mouth wide open, drool leaking into my cleavage like it was a boob-shaped water feature.

One of the other kids farted, laughed, and shouted “FART MONSTER RISING!” like it was a Marvel villain.

He looked at me and smiled.
“They really like you.”

I didn’t smile back. I couldn’t. My face had fallen off somewhere between Peppa Pig and Pancake Gate.

7:30PM: OPERATION ESCAPE

I texted my best friend:
“EMERGENCY. CODE RED. MOTHERHOOD LEVEL SIX. SEND HELP.”

She rang.
“Omg, your cat? What? Giving birth??”
Bless her. Oscar-worthy. I was already grabbing my coat.

“I’ve got to go,” I said. “Family…thing.”

One of the children clung to my leg and sobbed. “Will you be our new mummy?”

He walked me to the door, totally unfazed, and said,
“Fancy next Saturday? Could do with a lie-in. You’re great with them.”

I blocked him before I’d even made it off the driveway.

Until then, I’ll be here flirting with the Tesco delivery driver for sport and pretending yoga counts as a personality.

Single. Starving and not babysitting.

Wi-Fi Bills, Weight Loss & Wasted Hobbies

There comes a point in every woman’s life where she must ask herself the big questions: Is this hunger or heartbreak? Am I soul-searching or just low on iron? Should I pay my Wi-Fi bill or buy a 3-for-2 pack of eyelash serums TikTok said will change my life?

Lately, I’ve chosen Wi-Fi because, frankly, if I’m going to spiral, I’d rather do it in HD with unlimited access to true crime documentaries and emotionally damaging rom coms starring men who don’t exist in real life.

Instead, I’m focusing on me.
Which basically means I’m learning hobbies I’ll abandon in two weeks, Googling “low-calorie things that taste like chocolate” while crying into sugar-free jelly and accidentally losing weight because I keep mistaking anxiety for intermittent fasting.

Personal growth?
Try sobbing while attempting yoga poses named after woodland creatures I can’t pronounce.
Or whispering “namaste” while trapped in an awkward front-room headstand, praying my neighbour doesn’t see me through the window looking like an exorcism in leggings.

In the name of self-improvement, I’ve downloaded a knitting app, done one and a half Duolingo lessons in Spanish (“ell gato is in the bin”), and bought a paint-by-numbers kit that now lives under my bed with the rest of my broken dreams and that one sandal I lost at a garden party in 2018.

I’ve officially retired from flirting with men who text like they’re in prison and respond to my witty messages with “lol wyd.”
First of all, sir, if you can’t construct a full sentence, what makes you think you can construct a relationship?

I’m also done accidentally becoming a part-time therapist to emotionally unavailable men who treat me like a long-lost pen pal they remember once a fortnight just in case they need a backup plan with boobs.
One minute I’m sending a polite “Hope you’re good x,” and the next he’s trauma-dumping like I’m his NHS-allocated counsellor with evening availability.

I’ve ghosted more men this year than Casper’s entire bloodline.
I’m not being cold I’m being efficient.

Honestly? I’m tired.
Hungry.
Slightly dehydrated.
And maybe… finally wise.

I’ll still be here flirting with the Tesco delivery driver for sport and pretending yoga counts as a personality.

I’m not lonely I’m selectively social.
I don’t hate dating I just hate other people.

Recently, I matched with a man who described himself as “spiritually fit.”
What does that even mean?
Are you emotionally available or just allergic to gluten?

Another one said, “looking for something casual” and then sent me a list of his future children's names and a Spotify playlist titled ‘our wedding’.

Sir, seek help.

Don’t even get me started on the ones who send emojis instead of a proper message.
What am I supposed to do with that? Decipher it like its Morse code?

I’m in my 50s. My back hurts. I pay council tax. I don't have time to flirt via emojis like we’re on a CBBC chatroom in 2006.

So no, I’m not dating.
I’m recharging.
I’m rebirthing.
I’m probably pre-diabetic but let’s focus on the positives.

My hobbies now include:

Adding things to my online shopping cart I’ll never buy
Saving inspirational quotes that I never live by
And watching six episodes of a series I “don’t have time for” while lying dramatically on the sofa like a Jane Austen character waiting for someone to propose or bring me crisps.

Every week I say I’ll start waking up at 6am and journaling.
Instead, I wake up at 8:43am, panic-shower, scroll TikTok for 25 minutes, and then wonder why I’m stressed and my skins bad.

Lets talk about health.
I’m now a size 10.
Amazing, right? I should feel on top of the world.

Except now I have no boobs, I’m always cold and I look like someone’s mid-divorce aunt who just discovered chia seeds.

People say, “You must feel so confident!”
Sure, if confidence is whispering affirmations while rubbing coconut oil into my elbows and pretending, I didn’t just eat peanut butter off a spoon in the dark like a raccoon, whilst looking like a flying squirrel naked.

But I’ll say this:
I do feel proud.
Not because I look better but because I stopped chasing things that drained me.

I stopped answering messages from men who make me feel like I’m competing with their Xbox.
I stopped agreeing to meetups I don’t want, conversations that go nowhere and trying to look interested in photos of motorbikes.

Somewhere in all that between the anxiety diets, the jelly cravings, the failed crafts and dodgy Tinder dates, I realised I was becoming someone I like.

Single. Starving and not babysitting.

The One Where I Accidentally Joined a Pyramid Scheme Because I Wanted Lip Gloss

It all started innocently enough.

I was scrolling through Instagram, minding my own business, ignoring all the ads for flat tummy teas, collagen powders, and that weird face roller thing that looks like it belongs in a medieval torture chamber—when BAM. There she was. A woman with impossibly white teeth, holding a tube of lip gloss like it held the answers to all of life’s problems.

“Babes, this gloss changed my life. I went from depressed and broke to empowered and thriving in 6 days. DM me if you want in. Let’s get this bag”

Naturally, I thought: Yes. This is what I’ve been missing. Not therapy, not a savings account, not stability. Lip Gloss.

So, I slid into her DMs faster than my dignity could stop me and typed the three words that have led many women into financial ruin and group chats named “Boss Babes.”

“Tell me more.”

I didn’t want to sell anything. I just wanted lips that sparkled like a freshly washed Range Rover but she told me the real magic was in the starter kit.

For £75 (which, let’s be honest, is two Domino’s and a bottle of prosecco), I’d get 5 glosses, a branded hoodie that says, “Confidence Queen,” and access to a “millionaire mindset” WhatsApp group.

Reader, I bought the kit.

I wore the hoodie. I applied the gloss. I entered the group chat.

Thats when everything changed.

Imagine 36 women in one WhatsApp group, sending voice notes at 6:15am like:

“Rise and slay babes, today’s affirmation: I am rich, I am fierce, and I do NOT apologise for my sparkle #ManifestingMonday”

I hadn’t even boiled the kettle, and someone was already manifesting a yacht and tagging her team in a selfie with a ring light and the caption “You CAN sit with us. But only if you SELL.”

Suddenly, I wasn’t just a woman with dry lips—I was a CEO. An entrepreneur. A Glow Getta™.

I didn’t even know what I was selling anymore, but it didn’t matter, because I was now in a cult with glitter pens and mood boards.

Turns out, I wasn’t just supposed to sell the gloss. Oh no. That would be too easy.

The real money came from “building your empire.” Which meant recruiting people. Which meant bothering literally everyone I’ve ever known.

I became That Girl™.
Posting vague statuses like:

“Massive opportunity just fell in my lap. If you’re ready to leave your 9–5 and become a boss, DM me. Serious girls only”

I messaged my cousin who works in HR.

I messaged my friend who just had a baby and hadn’t slept since April.

I even messaged my ex. “Hope you're good! Just thought you’d love the opportunity to make passive income with a supportive team of like-minded individuals!”

He replied, “You OK Hun?”

No. No I was not.

Let me be clear: I didn’t sell a single tube of lip gloss. Not one.

I tried everything. Live videos, TikTok’s, awkward selfies where I posed in my hallway saying things like:

“When your gloss slays harder than your ex ever did”

I went from 312 followers to 278 in three days. One person blocked me entirely and I’m 99% sure my child muted my stories.

At one point, I offered a “free mindset call” with every purchase. No one wanted a gloss or my mindset.

We had weekly Zoom calls led by a woman who wore so much highlighter I could see my reflection in her forehead. She once earned £34,000 in a single month, apparently. Though oddly, she was always on mute when asked to prove it.

She used phrases like:

“You’ve got the same 24 hours as Beyoncé”
“It’s not a pyramid scheme; it’s a success ladder”
“If your friends don’t support you, get new friends”
(Which is exactly what you want to hear when your current friends are hiding from you in Tesco.)

I now owned 5 lip glosses, 2 mascaras, 3 highlighters that all looked the same, and a foundation in a shade called “Toast” which matched neither my face nor my soul.

I also had a box of business cards that said “Melissa – Beauty Consultant” even though I hadn’t consulted a single soul and was £112.49 in the hole.

One night I sat on the floor, surrounded by bubble mailers and unopened inventory, eating crisps and wondering if I could claim this as a business loss on my taxes.

It all came to a head when I tried to do a live makeup tutorial.

I spent an hour practising. I lit candles. I even used a ring light I bought off Facebook Marketplace from a girl who also used to be a “Glow Getta™.”

I pressed “Go Live” and within 30 seconds, my child commented:
“Why is your face orange?”

Then a random man joined and asked, “U selling pics?”

I ended the live, shut my laptop, and threw my “Confidence Queen” hoodie across the room like it had personally betrayed me.

I left the WhatsApp group (with a dramatic “Thank you for everything but I need to focus on ME now”) and unsubscribed from the monthly product drops.

I told my team of zero that I’d decided to take a step back.

One of the Boss Babes messaged me and said:
“Not everyone’s cut out for this life.”
Which I think was meant to hurt but honestly? I took it as a compliment.

I now have an entire drawer dedicated to shimmery regret.

I occasionally wear the gloss, if only to remember the time I briefly became the CEO of my own delusion.

I still twitch every time I hear the words “girl boss” or “passive income.” I’ve blocked three women named Chantelle who keep adding me to new “empowerment” groups but every now and then, I get a DM that says:

“Babe I’ve got an exciting opportunity you’d LOVE.”

I smile because I already know what it is and this time, I just reply:
“Tell me more.”
Then block them.

The One with the Turtle

I Now Have Beef with a Tortoise

Sometimes you meet someone online who oozes charm. You know the type: flirty, confident, and just the right amount of vague. Calls you “trouble,” but in that voice that makes you feel like you are trouble in a sexy, cocktail-in-hand, hair-blowing-in-the-wind way, not in the actual sense where you're Googling “what to do if someone vomits on a reptile.”

Anyway, this particular man let’s call him Island Boy had the chat. Voice notes, memes, spontaneous “what are you doing this weekend?” messages. He was like a walking bottle of Pinot Grigio: smooth, chilled and likely to cause chaos if consumed in large doses.

After a few weeks of late-night phone calls and him claiming he “just wanted a woman who’s not afraid of spontaneity,” he invited me to his Village, on an island. Did I think he was a cult leader? A little. Did I still go? Absolutely. Because at the time, the only island I had plans with was the one in my kitchen that doubled as my laundry pile.

So off we went. Me, my best friend (who volunteered to drive because she’s clearly trying to get into heaven), her teenage daughter, my adult daughter (another mother-daughter duo) and my teenage son. Basically, a hormonal carload of chaos. It was giving Mamma Mia — if all the cast were on their period and emotionally unstable.

We packed the car like we were moving country. Snacks, fake tan, waterproof mascara. I even brought Spanx strong enough to compress my entire personality. And off we drove toward what I now refer to as “The Turtle Incident of 2020.”

We arrived to find village boy wasn’t lying. It was beautiful place — though it felt more like the kind of place where people go to disappear, not holiday. But there was a local pub, a house with a sea view, and enough Prosecco to make me forget I had standards.

My friend stayed sober, bless her, while the rest of us drank like the Titanic had just hit the iceberg. My son tried to act cool while surrounded by women pretending not to be drunk, and the girls… well, they discovered vodka and emotional damage all in one go.

Cut to midnight. We’re back at village boy’s house. He’s already disappeared to bed probably once he heard the words “pass me the Lambrini” and realised this wasn’t the glamorous harem he envisioned but we weren’t done yet. Oh no, because the girls were just getting started.

My daughter decided now was the perfect time to empty her stomach. Like, violently and not in the discreet “I’ll be sick in the loo” way. No, she did that thing where your soul leaves your body and all you can do is point and panic. The nearest thing to catch it? A fruit bowl. Full of actual fruit.

Now, village boy had a pet turtle. Not just a cute little tank one this guy was roaming around the lounge like a tiny pensioner on a mission. His name? Gerald. Gerald the Turtle. I don’t know what sins I committed in a past life, but karma cashed in that night.

As I tried to help my child, I in full drunken maternal mode grabbed the sick-filled fruit bowl, attempting to carry it to safety like I was cradling the Holy Grail. I tiptoed through the lounge in heels, Spanx digging into my spleen, when BAM I tripped over a children’s bike someone had left smack in the middle of the room.

Everything went slow motion. The fruit bowl launched. A rainbow arc of vomit and grapes flew across the room. I landed face-first into a beanbag, still gripping half a pear like I was in a weird dream. Silence. Then: screams.

I looked up.

Gerald. Was. Covered.

There are moments in life that change you. For some, it’s childbirth. For others, heartbreak. For me, it was looking into the eyes of a turtle mid-trauma as he sat in a puddle of sick and banana chunks.

The next 10 minutes were sheer panic. Someone threw me a towel. Someone else shouted “HE’S FOAMING!” (He wasn’t, it was a kiwi slice). I wiped Gerald down like I was on a vet’s version of 24 Hours in A&E, whispering apologies while heaving. My best friend screamed, “GET OUT, WE NEED TO GO BEFORE SOMEONE WAKES UP!”

We did what any sensible group of women would do: we panicked and bolted.

The rubbish including the sick towels, the fruit, and half a sausage roll someone stepped on got launched out the window like we were ditching evidence in a crime thriller. We bundled into the car; the kids slumped in the back like hungover Sims characters. We’d nearly made it to the ferry when we got pulled over by the police.

Brilliant.

Apparently, launching bin bags out of a window in a quiet, island village isn’t subtle. Who knew?

We got breathalysed (all good thank God for a sensible friend), questioned, and lectured about public disorder and littering. I nodded like a remorseful PTA mum while wondering if I still had kiwi in my hair. The teenagers sobbed, my daughter drunk and disorderly, best friend fuming. Gerald probably had PTSD.

We were released with a warning, and I’ve never driven in such shameful silence in my life. Not even after that time I called a bouncer “Dad” and tried to show him my GCSE results.

The next morning, I had to check on the turtle. Yes. I sent village boy a text that read:

“Hey… bit of a weird one. Is Gerald, okay?”

No reply.

I followed it up with a photo of a turtle gif holding a ‘sorry’ sign. Still nothing.

Eventually, I got a message from his child, who apparently was upstairs the whole time and heard everything. It just said:
“Gerald is fine. Please don’t come back.”

Fair.

Never underestimate the trajectory of a fruit bowl.
And never, ever, mix kids, dates, vodka, and free-range turtles.

Gerald, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.

But in my defence, neither did I.

Deleted Tinder, Kept Fred: A Love Story of Box Sets and Boundaries

So, I’ve done it.
The apps are gone.
Bumble? Deleted.
Tinder? Banished.
Hinge? Unhinged and uninstalled.
Plenty of Fish? I’d rather drown.

I've chosen peace, Netflix, and my dressing gown, Fred. Yes, Fred has a name. No, I don’t care if that’s concerning. Fred has seen me through heartbreaks, hangovers, and haemorrhoids (don't ask) and unlike men, Fred has pockets and doesn’t ghost me mid-conversation unless I accidentally sit on the remote again.

It started on a Tuesday as all my breakdowns do.

I was three voice notes deep in a delusional spiral to my best friend, detailing how a man I’d never met in person but who once reacted to my selfie with a fire emoji, was “definitely The One.” That’s when I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the microwave.

Puffy eyes. Spots from stress. Wearing mismatched socks and eating cereal with a serving spoon. I’d spent months scrolling through men who looked like they still lived with their mums, wore ripped jeans with no irony, and thought “banter” was a personality. And for what? For a conversation that begins with “u up?” and ends with me explaining why I won’t be driving 45 minutes to “Netflix and chill” with someone who can't spell Netflix.

No thanks. I decided it was time for something radical. Something bold. Something that involved not seeking validation from strangers who listed “crypto” as a hobby.

I pressed DELETE.

And just like that, I was free.

People talk about soulmates like they’re supposed to make your heart race. Mine makes me feel like a baked potato. His name is Fred. He’s fluffy, leopard print, slightly threadbare under the arms and smells faintly of lavender and regret.

I got Fred three exes ago. He’s survived breakups, makeup-stained sob sessions and even that one tragic moment I attempted a DIY bikini wax (again, don’t ask). Fred doesn’t judge. Fred doesn’t text back “k.” Fred accepts me.

I now spend my evenings in Fred, hair up in a questionable bun, face slathered in a sheet mask that makes me look like a serial killer, watching box sets like it’s my full-time job.

Gone are the days of “getting ready” to impress a man whose idea of foreplay is turning the PlayStation off. Now? I get dolled up to open the Amazon parcel I forgot I ordered last week. It’s giving healing. It’s giving main character. It’s giving “She finally left the group chat”.

Now, I’ve always had a flair for the dramatic but the day I realised my love life had officially been replaced by fictional characters on TV, I wept.

I cried actual tears when the characters in the final season of my box set broke up. I’m talking ugly sobbing into a hot water bottle because Sharon and Gary from episode 48 of ’til Death Do Us Part just “needed space.”

Meanwhile, I haven’t had a real kiss since that guy from the corner shop complimented my smile and then asked if I wanted to “come over his and chill one night… but bring beer.” Romance is dead or at least constipated.

My emotional support snacks now consist of:

A family-size bag of lentil crisps that I pretend is “healthy”
A tray of oven chips that I air fry at 10pm like a divorced dad
A single Lindt ball I ration out weekly like it’s WWII

I’ve swapped wine for peppermint tea. Not by choice, might I add. My last wine hangover lasted three days, included crying in a bath and ended with me messaging someone named “Craig Gym Biceps” asking if he missed me. He replied: “Who dis?”

That’s when I knew. It was time for a break. Wine-free and man-free: the new detox.

Since deleting the apps, I’ve discovered a wild, undiscovered life outside of swipe culture. I’ve taken up hobbies, grown as a person, and even remembered my friends’ birthdays.

Here’s what I do now instead of flirting with people who say “vibes are everything” but have none:

Water my plants (one’s still alive, progress!)

Read books (well, headlines… okay, Instagram captions)

Rewatch ‘Bridgerton’ and pretend I’m not jealous of fictional characters getting more action than me

Rearrange my kitchen cupboards as if I’m expecting Gordon Ramsay to pop in for tea

I also found myself talking to my mirror last night. Not in a cute self-love way in a full conversation about whether I should buy a weighted blanket or just continue using three duvets and a hoodie. I went with option B. Naturally.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not floating through life covered in crystals and chanting affirmations. I still occasionally cry at wedding adverts and mutter “must be nice” when couples walk past holding hands.

But deleting those apps? Best Decision Ever.

Turns out, self-love isn’t bath bombs and candles. Sometimes it’s:

Saying no to energy-draining texts
Unfollowing that fitness influencer who says, “we all have the same 24 hours” (babe, I don’t even have clean underwear)
Realising that I’m not “too much” — I’ve just been offering gourmet vibes to men who deserve a Happy Meal

I’ve become my own rebound, bestie, and therapist. I take myself for walks. I listen to podcasts about healing and then completely ignore the advice. Growth!

Will I Redownload the Apps?

Honestly? Maybe one day. But not today.

Today, I am cuddled up in Fred, watching reruns of murder documentaries while eating hummus straight from the tub. I’ve officially reached “zero shame, full comfort” status. I don’t need a man to tell me I’m pretty — I’ve got a good lighting mirror and 62 selfies that already confirmed that.

To all my single ladies (and gents): delete the apps, at least for a bit. Get yourself a Fred. Get yourself a face mask. Watch a box set so good it ruins you for real-life people and remember you are the plot. Not the side character. Not the one waiting for someone else to notice your worth. You are the main event, baby.

PS: If anyone asks if I’m still single, I simply say: “Taken… by peace and an emotionally available robe.”

Ghosting My Past Like A Pro

Here's the thing about healing that no one tells you: it’s not tidy.
It’s not a clean break or a serene yoga pose. It’s ugly crying at 2 a.m., unfollowing people who make you feel like crap, and deleting numbers you used to memorise.

I started saying goodbye to people without big announcements or fireworks. Just… letting go.
You know those friends who only come around when they need something?
Gone.
That ex who keeps sending “u up?” texts every few months like I’m an emotional drive-thru?
Blocked.
The girl who made everything a competition and disguised insults as jokes?
Bye-bye, babe.

It was hard. Not going to lie. I love people. Even the wrong ones. Especially the wrong ones. I used to collect them like weird little emotional antiques but I realised: peace costs something. You don’t get to have it unless you’re willing to lose what disrupts it and some people are just not meant to come with you.

Funny thing is… when you stop running around trying to be everything to everyone, you notice the few who are still standing beside you.

The ones who text you when you go quiet.
Who know your coffee order AND your trauma timeline.
The ones who didn’t care if you were productive during lockdown or if you gained a stone and a half from emotional eating and flapjacks.

Those are the keepers.
The ride-or-dies.
The ones who saw you at your worst, no bra, no boundaries, sobbing over your ex’s new girlfriend’s highlights and stayed anyway.

I have a few. Not many but enough.

It’s not a Disney ending. I’m not riding off into the sunset with abs and a fiancé but I’m quieter now. Not boring just less chaotic. I no longer feel the need to perform for people who wouldn’t even clap for me.

I read more. I sleep better. I don’t tolerate nonsense like I used to. My boundaries are set so high now they need planning permission.

I’ve learned that peace isn’t a permanent state. It’s a choice. Daily. Hourly, sometimes. Choosing not to reply to the message that makes your stomach drop. Choosing to walk away when the vibe is off. Choosing yourself—even when it feels selfish.

And most importantly, choosing not to chase people who never chose you.

Badoo, Bakes and a Flask Full of Disappointment

So, lockdown ended, and humanity emerged from their houses blinking into the light like confused hamsters. Some people were raring to get back out into the pubs, others just wanted to hug their nan. Me? I downloaded Badoo. Why? Boredom, curiosity... and because stalking your exes from a safe digital distance counts as self-care in 2021.

Don’t judge. We were all feral back then.

After a few months in complete isolation where my only human interaction was nodding at the Tesco delivery driver like we were long-lost war veterans, I figured it was time to “put myself back out there.” That phrase makes me sound like a refurbished microwave but honestly. That’s about accurate. I wasn’t looking for love. I was looking for signs of life. Preferably with teeth and a pulse.

Anyway, I downloaded Badoo. The world’s favourite app for people who think Tinder is too mainstream and Hinge is too honest. I was just going to be nosey. Nothing serious. Just a cheeky scroll, maybe find out if my ex had finally upgraded or downgraded. (Spoiler alert: downgraded. To someone who wears glittery visors and calls herself "spiritual" but can't spell "chakra.")

As I perused the local offerings, it quickly became clear that the dating pool post-lockdown was less pool and more stagnant puddle. I matched with one man who said his hobbies included “crypto and Chernobyl documentaries.” Romantic.

Another one told me he loved animals— “especially when they’re cooked right.” Then there was one who tried to flirt by sending me a selfie wearing nothing but a pinny and holding a Cornetto. In December.

But the pièce de resistance was the man who messaged me, and I quote, “Ever heard a grown man cluck like a duck?” Reader, I had not. Until that moment. He sent a voice note. I opened it thinking maybe it was something flirty or sexy. No. It was a 45-second audio file of him clucking. Like. A. Duck. Then followed up with, “Bet you’ve never had anyone do that for you before.”

He was right and there’s a reason for that.

Badoo was not exactly a treasure trove but while I was busy avoiding poultry impersonators, I was also skint and when I say skint, I mean checking the couch cushions for enough change to buy Lidl baked beans kind of skint. So, I did what any slightly unhinged, freshly traumatised-by-lockdown woman would do: I started a cake business.

From my kitchen. With no business plan but hey, passion over paperwork, right?

The idea was simple. Sell cupcakes. Make money. Maybe flirt with a few local cake-loving bachelors. What could go wrong?

Turns out, everything.

I met one guy who ordered two dozen brownies and then asked if I “did discounts for cuddles.” Another thought “home delivery” meant I was coming in lingerie and one man this is not a drill tried to pay me in Tesco Clubcard points.

Still, there were some sweet ones. Like the guy I liked. Let’s call him Hot Chocolate Man.

We messaged for a bit. He was charming. Sent complete sentences. Didn’t mention ducks or Cornetto’s. One evening, he suggested a beach walk. I agreed because A) it sounded romantic and B) I hadn’t shaved my legs in months and this felt like motivation.

The weather was… optimistic. Cloudy with a 98% chance of regret but I put on my best ‘I’m chill and breezy’ outfit (aka leggings, oversized hoodie, false confidence), and off I went.

He arrived in grey sweatpants.

Let’s pause.

Why are women so fascinated by grey sweatpants? Is it the mystery? The jiggle physics? The false sense of hope they give. I don’t know but I was suddenly very interested in walking behind him.

The clouds broke open the moment we reached the sand. I'm talking biblical, apocalyptic, puddles-in-my-bra level rain. I looked like a drowned cat in cheap mascara. And him? He just smiled, pulled out a flask from his jacket like a smug boy scout and went, “Hot chocolate?”

Then—he pulled out marshmallows from one pocket. Whipped cream from the other. I don’t even carry my keys with that level of organisation. We stood, soaking wet, drinking hot chocolate with trimmings, on a windy British beach like two characters from a badly edited Netflix rom-com.

He kissed me goodnight. It was cute. It was cinematic. It was finally a win.

So obviously… I never heard from him again.

Ghosted. Gone. Vanished like my will to live after watching someone lick the icing off a cupcake and hand it back and that’s when it hit me: I was in the middle of a dating horror montage and the only consistent man in my life was Fred.

So, I deleted Badoo. Again, for the 12th time. I curled up with Fred, three leftover cupcakes and reruns of Married at First Sight, wondering why I keep hoping for something romantic when the universe clearly thinks I’m in a sitcom.

Dating post-lockdown is like shopping in a charity shop blindfolded. Occasionally, you find a gem. Most of the time you end up with someone else’s stained regrets and wonder how you got here.

But hey, at least I have a cake business. Even if half my customers think “ganache” is a safe word.

Moral of the story?
Don’t trust men in grey sweatpants.
Never drink hot chocolate on a British beach.
Unless he brings marshmallows. In which case, ghost him first.

Peaky Blinders and Blinding Disappointment

So, apparently, organic meets are the best kind, right? None of that swiping left or right, no pixelated bathroom selfies or “looking for a vibe” bios, just pure, unfiltered, fate-driven encounters. The type of thing that sounds like a rom com but usually ends up feeling more like a public service announcement for emotional damage.

It was a Friday night. Two girls, me and my bestie, in a local lounge bar, looking like we'd only left the house because Deliveroo was down. Mascara on, bras slightly suffocating, and faces halfway buried in the kind of burgers that require three napkins and an apology to your arteries. Zero expectations. We weren’t prowling. We were eating. Like, mouths open, sauce-on-the-cheek, eating.

Enter: two men. No, scratch that. Two specimens. Think 1920s gangsters, Peaky Blinders energy, waistcoats, pocket watches, the kind of hair that says I use pomade, and I own a comb. You could practically hear the “By order of the Peaky Blinders!” music in the background as they strolled in, bringing with them the scent of aftershave and bad decisions.

They spotted us mid-chip, and I swear to God, one of them winked. A wink, mid-fry. My inner cynic whispered, “Abort mission” but my wine whispered louder: “YOLO.”

They asked if they could join us, and being the charming, well-raised women we are, we obviously said, “Sure, why not?” which loosely translates to “We’re bored, let’s roll the dice.”

Laughter that made our cheeks hurt. Rounds of shots that escalated from “just one” to “who needs kidneys anyway?” and the kind of chemistry that could set off a fire alarm. It felt like the universe had finally taken a break from being a petty little gremlin and given us a win.

My guy let’s call him Tommy, because why not continue the Peaky Blinders fantasy was handsome, witty, and knew how to pour a drink without looking like he needed adult supervision and my friend’s guy? Total gentleman. Held doors, made eye contact, didn’t check the football scores once. It was giving respectful king.

The night ended with kisses on cheeks that lingered a bit too long to be innocent and the exchanging of numbers. Not just a “here’s my Insta” – a full name, digits and a WhatsApp message before we even got in the taxi. I floated home on a cloud of flirtation and tequila, fully convinced I’d just met my future... something. Maybe not husband but at least someone who wouldn’t ghost me after four business days and then, as always, Inspector Morse mode activated.

Now, I don’t usually stalk. Okay, I do but only because it’s called safety, Karen. I just wanted a light scroll. A name search. A bit of innocent digital recon. You know... due diligence.

What I didn’t expect to find was a WIFE. Like, full-blown wedding album publicly available on Facebook kind of wife. Smiling, matching tuxedos, the works. There was even a kid in the photo with a caption like “My world” and suddenly I was the villain in my own Netflix documentary.

I stared at the screen like I was in The Sixth Sense and just realized I was dead the whole time.

Married. Married.

I wanted to hurl my phone, the burger, and myself out the window.

And the worst part? My friend’s guy – Mr. Respectful Door-Holder? Single as a Pringle. No ring. No suspicious online activity. No hidden wives, mistresses, or secret families in Dundee. Just my luck. The universe said, “Here, Melissa, enjoy a slice of connection. Psych! It’s gluten-free disappointment!”

I did the only sensible thing a woman with dignity and pride could do.

I politely blocked him on everything.

Even LinkedIn. I don’t need that kind of corporate ghost haunting my professional life.

Now here’s the kicker. My friend? She’s now casually dating her Peaky Blinder. They go to cute pubs. They share fries without fighting. He sends her good morning texts before 9am. It’s like watching the rom-com I thought I was starring in but suddenly got recast as the sarcastic best friend with crumbs on her top.

I mean, I’m happy for her. Obviously. No bitterness here. Just passive-aggressive commentary and a newfound distrust for waistcoats.

What is it with me attracting the ones who come with a side of secrets? It’s like the minute a man looks at me with even a flicker of charm, God sends a pop-up notification: “WARNING: This one comes with baggage, baby and a part-time wife.”

Why can’t I ever stumble across a nice, emotionally available accountant who thinks monogamy is sexy and owns more than one bath towel? Why must my flirting life resemble a tragic short story written by someone who’s never known peace?

Also, can we discuss how cheerful he looked in those wedding photos? Like, beaming. Like someone who has the audacity to propose, say vows, and then still go out flirting with unsuspecting burger-eaters while their wife is probably at home ironing his Peaky Blinders cap.

I hope his aftershave gives him a rash.

Anyway. Lesson learned. Organic meet-cutes are just as chaotic as dating apps but with more chewing involved. At least on Tinder, you expect disappointment. You’re practically braced for it. But in real life? You think you’re in a romcom and instead you’re just the prequel to someone else’s divorce.

Moral of the story? Trust your chips. Not your instincts.

And maybe next time someone walks in looking like they belong in a BBC period drama; I’ll politely decline and finish my burger in peace.

I don’t need a husband. I need salt, vinegar, and maybe a tracking number for my self-esteem.

Strolling Through Life, Just Strolling (And Other Midlife Meltdowns in Leggings)

Strolling through life. Just strolling. Not running, not jogging, not even power walking just a slow, steady, “look at her go, she’s probably just escaped the care home” kind of stroll.

It’s peaceful, really. Therapeutic. Kind of like mindfulness but with more wheezing and internal monologues about whether I remembered to defrost the chicken. I’ve taken to chatting to myself mid-walk. Out loud. Full conversations. Plot twists. Sarcasm. Sometimes accents and you know what? Strangers are weirdly kind to me.

I used to think people were smiling at me because I radiate good vibes. Now I realise it’s probably because I’m muttering things like, “Well, Susan, if he hasn’t texted you back by now, he’s probably in prison,” while aggressively sipping my lukewarm takeaway coffee and side-eyeing ducks.

Yes, I’m the woman walking through the park looking like she’s on her second glass of wine and mid-phone call with her ex. Except there’s no wine. No phone. Just pure, unfiltered madness with a side of snack crumbs.

My outfits? Oh, babes. Cinematic.

I call it “middle-aged desperado with a side of delusion.” We’re talking leopard print that’s seen better decades, leggings that have more holes than the plot of a reality TV show, and oversized sunglasses that scream “hungover celebrity avoiding court.”

And yet, here I am googling “fashion for middle-aged women” like I’m not the reason the internets on fire. Pinterest thinks I want to dress like a linen-clad divorcee who paints bowls of fruit and drinks herbal tea out of mason jars. I’m out here searching for "flattering tunics for bloated rage queens" and all I get is beige. Beige! The fashion world sees middle age and hands us kaftans and kitten heels, like we’ve all collectively decided to give up and float into early retirement.

I want spice. I want sass. I want a wardrobe that says, “I might be perimenopausal, but I still know how to flirt with a barman for free nachos.”

Instead, I get targeted ads for compression socks, elasticated jeans, and something called a “shaping camisole” that promises to “hug your curves,” which is code for “strangle your ribs and leave you gasping like a fish.”

Let’s talk about dating. Or as I now call it: emotionally preparing for disappointment in HD.

You’d think by now I’d have a system. A method. A checklist but no. I’m still out here giving my number to men who say things like, “I don’t really believe in labels,” or worse— “I’m spiritually married to the universe.” What does that even mean? Are you cheating on me with the moon?

One man told me he liked “natural women.” I assumed he meant minimal makeup. What he meant was women who are cool with not showering regularly and believe deodorant is a government conspiracy. I walked away so fast my Fitbit thought I was doing cardio.

I miss the old me. The delusional twenty-something who thought a red lipstick and a dream was enough. The woman who could wear heels for four hours without crying and didn't Google “can you get whiplash from turning your neck too fast.” Now, my joints pop like microwave popcorn if I even look at a flight of stairs.

And social media? Oh, what a joy it is to open Instagram and be assaulted by 22-year-olds who make videos about their “mid-life crises” because they found a grey hair. Meanwhile, I’m brushing mine out like it’s a limited-edition streak from Cruella De Vil and wondering if I could make it look intentional.

I posted a selfie last week. Just a standard, "here I am, still alive, still hot-Ish" kind of vibe. Within minutes, I had one comment that said, “You look tired.”

Tired?!

I am tired, Sharon. I’m tired of men with guitars, tired of gym leggings that roll down when I sit, tired of cooking meals that no one compliments, and most of all—tired of pretending oat milk tastes normal.

But hey, I’m not all complaints.

There’s a kind of freedom in this chaos. There’s something beautiful about strolling through life, truly unbothered. I no longer care if I match. I mix leopard print with stripes. I leave the house in mismatched socks and

All I’m Looking for is Peace (and Maybe a Nap)”

Whenever someone asks me what I’m looking for in a partner which, frankly, is too often considering most of them couldn’t even assemble a flat-pack chair without breaking into tears my answer is always the same: peace.

Not passion. Not a ‘50 Shades’ audition. Not a man who calls me “babe” before he’s even learned my surname. Just peace.

That ahhh feeling you get when your bra finally comes off, or when you realise your bank card did go through for the weekly shop. That rare and delicious calm where no one’s shouting, nobody’s sulking, and no one is sending me a blurry photo of their “personality” at 2 a.m.

Why Peace Beats Lust (Most of the Time)

Don’t get me wrong I’m human. I enjoy physical contact. I’ve been known to make eye contact with a man across a bar and imagine our entire wedding playlist in the time it takes him to order a pint. I know the power of a long hug, a cheeky touch, or those moments when you’re curled up with someone and it’s all warmth, not words but here’s the thing: desire is easy. Peace is hard.

You can find desire in a nightclub, in the queue at Greggs, or in the frozen aisle at Tesco if the lighting’s right but peace? That’s rare. Peace is when your phone doesn’t blow up with drama. Peace is when no one makes you feel like you need to download another self-help podcast just to survive date number three.

The Standards Shift

I used to be that girl. The one who took crumbs and called it a meal. The one who thought, “Oh, he’s emotionally unavailable but texts me at 1 a.m.? Must mean he’s in love.”

But then something shifted. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was therapy. Maybe it was realising I had better conversations with my plants than with most men I’d dated. Whatever it was, I stopped seeing bad behaviour as something to negotiate with and started seeing it as a red flag factory.

The bar didn’t just rise it hit the stratosphere.

Bare minimum effort? Bye.
Can’t communicate like a grown adult? Blocked.
Treats me like I’m an option? Congratulations, you’ve been unsubscribed.

It’s not that I became bitter. It’s that I realised I’m too old to be needy begging. I’m too tired to argue over Snapchat streaks or “Why haven’t you texted me back?” I want mutual respect and maybe the occasional foot rub, not someone who needs reminding to brush his teeth.

Head High, Spanx Less Tight

One of the best parts of growing up aside from finally being able to afford the good cheese is learning to walk into any room with your head high and your Spanx… well, maybe a little less tight than before.

You get to a point where you stop sucking your stomach in for three hours straight and start prioritising oxygen over aesthetics. That’s where I’m at in dating now: breathing freely. Not suffocating to fit into someone’s idea of “perfect.”

I don’t care if they think I’m a little mad. Newsflash: I am a little mad. In fact, I’d say I’m comfortably batshit crazy but in a way, that’s endearing, not terrifying. I’m the kind of crazy that sends memes at 2 a.m. and talks to my dog like he’s a flatmate. The fun crazy, not the burn-your-house-down crazy.

Peace Isn’t Boring

Some people hear “peace” and think it means “boring.” That I want a beige life, a beige man and a beige wardrobe. No.

Peace doesn’t mean dull. Peace means the arguments are about what takeaway to order, not why your partner liked three bikini photos from someone named “Kiki” on Instagram. Peace means you can still have excitement, fun, adventure but without the exhaustion that comes from dating people whose emotional maturity is somewhere between a toddler and a badly trained Labrador.

My Dating Peace Criteria

At this stage, my list is short but powerful:

Respect – Not the Aretha Franklin kind where I must spell it out for you. Just basic, everyday respect.
Humour – If you can’t laugh at life’s chaos, you’re not my person.
No Chaos Kings – If you bring drama like it’s a party trick, you’re cancelled.
Physical Affection – Yes, I said peace, but I’m not joining a monastery. Hold my hand. Cuddle me. Just don’t expect me to send a nude before I’ve even seen your living room furniture situation.
Self-Sufficiency – Have your own hobbies. Your own friends. Your own bank card. (The bar is low but not that low.)

Things I No Longer Tolerate

“U up?” texts I am always up but not for you.
Mansplaining I already know how Netflix works, thanks.
Commitment phobia disguised as “I’m just super chill.”
People who think “peace” means I’ll let them get away with being lazy.

Peace with a Side of Sass

Here’s the part people misunderstand peace does not mean I’m soft. In fact, peace has made me sharper because when you are not distracted by drama, you notice things quicker. The subtle digs. The missed calls “by accident.” The disappearing acts every time you ask a genuine question.

When you have got peace, you protect it like your last bottle of wine on a Sunday night. You will fight for it but only in the right way. Not screaming matches, not tearful ultimatums, just a quiet and confident: “This doesn’t work for me.”

If they can’t handle that? Off they go, back into the dating pool where hopefully someone else enjoys fishing in murky waters.

The Funny Thing About Wanting Peace

When you tell people you want peace, some look at you like you’ve just announced you want to live in a cave and eat lentils forever but peace is the most luxurious, high-maintenance thing you can want.

It’s not about sitting in silence all day (although, honestly, some days that sounds heavenly). It’s about creating a life where the people you let in add to it, not drain from it. Where the biggest thrill is knowing you can be yourself unfiltered, unedited, un-Spanxed and still be loved.

In Conclusion: The Peace Era

So yes, I’m in my Peace Era.
No chasing. No begging. No justifying why I deserve the bare minimum.

I still want desire I’m not dead, thank you very much. I still want the little sparks, the random texts, the “thinking of you” moments but more than anything, I want that calm, solid, head-high kind of relationship. The one where you feel safe and sexy at the same time.

Until then, I’ll be here Spanx loosened, standards sky-high, still a little batshit crazy and completely at peace with the fact that I’d rather be alone than surrounded by chaos.

And if that makes me picky? Well… pass the wine and call me serene.

Peace, Silence, and Eight Engagement Rings Later"

With peace comes silence.

With silence comes thoughts.

And with thoughts comes the dawning realisation that maybe — just maybe — I’m not entirely normal.

The Dangerous Side of Peace

Everyone raves about peace like it’s the secret to happiness and don’t get me wrong, I love it. I love not having my phone light up with “Where are you?” when I’m literally in the toilet. I love that no one’s trying to gaslight me into believing they didn’t just like their ex’s bikini photos. I love that my current emotional state isn’t dependent on whether some man-child replied to my WhatsApp, but peace has a dark side.

When there’s no drama, no chaos, no arguments over who left the bathroom light on… your brain gets chatty.

And not in a “let’s plan a holiday” way. More like a “remember that time you got engaged for the fourth time in a pub car park?” way.

Eight Engagements and a Funeral (For My Sanity)

Yes, I have been engaged eight times. That’s not a typo. That’s not a dare. That’s my actual track record.

If marriage proposals were an Olympic sport, I’d have medals hanging on the wall but here’s the twist I’ve only got one ring left to show for it.

One. Out of eight.

That’s not a jewellery collection; that’s a cautionary tale.

The others? Gone. Lost in breakups, pawn shops, or in one memorable case, given back in a Tesco bag along with the hoodie I apparently “stole” (I didn’t steal it; he left it at mine, I just assumed squatter’s rights).

Afterthought Engagements

Here’s the thing: not all eight proposals were romantic gestures of undying love. At least four of them were what I call “afterthought engagements.”

You know, when someone’s treated you badly for long enough and suddenly has a moment of clarity and goes:
"Oh my God, she’s amazing… and she hasn’t murdered me yet. Better lock this down."

It’s never a good sign when a proposal comes right after you’ve packed your bags. Nothing says “romance” like a panicked man shoving a ring in your hand while you’re halfway out the door with your suitcase.

Silence Screams Stories

People think silence is peaceful. Sometimes it is but sometimes it’s just loud.

When my house is quiet, my mind starts playing old highlight reels and by “highlight” I mean: “deeply questionable decisions fuelled by alcohol and optimism.”

The wildest stories always involve booze. Always.

In fact, I’m starting to wonder if I’m allergic to it. Not in the rash-and-swelling way but in the “it turns me into an engagement magnet” way.

There’s just something about me after three glasses of wine. My hair gets fluffier. My eyes sparkle and apparently, I radiate “marry me” energy usually to the least suitable man in the room.

Alcohol: The Common Denominator

If I trace my relationship history like one of those crime boards with the red string, alcohol is the connecting thread.

Engagement #2: Champagne on a rooftop bar. I said yes because there were fireworks… which later turned out to be from a nearby football match.
Engagement #5: Prosecco in Watford. He proposed after telling me I was “different from other girls” (translation: I didn’t ask him to stop chain-smoking).
Engagement #7: A bottle of rosé in a Travelodge. If that doesn’t scream “true love,” I don’t know what does.

Maybe I’m not allergic to alcohol. Maybe alcohol just lowers my will to say, “What the hell are you talking about, Kevin?”

Or Am I Just… a Twat?

This is the other theory.

Maybe it’s not the booze. Maybe it’s not even the men. Maybe it’s just… me.

I am “engagement material.” I make an incredible first impression. I’m fun. I’m chaotic in a way that’s attractive for six to eight weeks but then… the shine wears off and they realise I’m not exactly domesticated.

I don’t meal-prep. I will drink prosecco for dinner. I will order an Amazon package every other day and then forget what I bought. I once used a drill to open a wine bottle because the corkscrew had “gone missing” (it hadn’t, I just didn’t want to look for it) and maybe, after the initial “She’s so spontaneous!” phase, the reality sets in. Off they go, leaving me with another broken engagement, a half-full wine bottle, and sometimes a hoodie.

The Gift of Hindsight

The good thing about peace is it gives you hindsight. It’s like watching a nature documentary of your own life but you’re both the lion and the antelope.

Looking back, I can spot the exact moments I should’ve run:

When he called his mum during our first holiday to ask how to boil pasta.
When I caught him flirting with the waitress while I was literally in the bathroom.
When he bought me a Valentine’s gift from the petrol station… well he stole it.

Why I’m Weirdly Grateful

As ridiculous as it all sounds, I’m grateful for those engagements. Each one taught me something.

Engagement #1 taught me not to ignore red flags just because someone looks good in a leather jacket.
Engagement #3 taught me that proposing while drunk is not legally binding (unfortunately, emotionally it still is).
Engagement #6 taught me that just because someone plays guitar doesn’t mean they’re deep.

Most importantly, they all taught me that I don’t want a wedding if it comes at the cost of my peace.

Peace Now, Chaos Later

Right now, I’m in a peace bubble. No arguments, no “Where is this going?” conversations, no awkward ring returns. Just me, my silence, and occasionally wondering if I should start wearing mittens when I drink so I can’t accidentally accept proposals but knowing me, the chaos will sneak back in eventually. It always does. Someone will make me laugh in a bar, buy me a drink and before I know it, I’ll be texting my friends: “OMG, you’ll never guess what happened…”

Until then, I’m keeping my head high, my Spanx less tight and my engagement count firmly at eight.

Although… if number nine shows up with a decent bottle of wine and a sense of humour?

Well, I never said I’d learned.

Do I? Don’t I?

You would think being single in your late-forties (okay, fine, early fifties with good lighting) would be this glorious carousel of freedom spontaneous weekends away, questionable one-night stands, the occasional salsa dancing session in someone’s kitchen at 3 a.m. but let me tell you: most of my freedom involves sitting on my sofa, sober, in pyjamas that scream retirement home lounge, debating whether to eat the last biscuit or save it in case of a national emergency.

Here I am again, Friday night. Hair washed. Mascara still clinging on from this morning like a determined ex. Music in the background. The question lurking in the back of my mind like a nosy neighbour peeking through the blinds:

Do I… or don’t I?

The Ghost of Wine Nights Past

Let’s be honest when I did throw caution to the wind, wine was involved. Not just a “glass to take the edge off” situation. No, my wine phases had distinct categories:

The Classy Start: Glass poured elegantly into a wide-bowled glass. Lighting a candle. Feeling like I was starring in my own Nancy Meyers rom-com.
The Casual Middle: Sloshing more in, mid-conversation, spilling a bit on the counter, shrugging it off like, “It’s fine, it’s character.”
The Chaos Finale: Waving my arms wildly, deciding I can dance on a table despite having the core strength of an unused Pilates ball, and promising strangers I’ll definitely “text them tomorrow” knowing full well I’ll block their number.

There was always a story. The wrong story. The “waking up and Googling how to get Prosecco out of carpet” kind of story.

The Sober Girl Dilemma

Now that I’m mostly sober (I mean, I’ve still been known to give a cocktail menu a longing glance like it’s Ryan Gosling in a suit), my nights out now look… different. I don’t projectile vomit anymore. I don’t accidentally befriend a hen party and end up in their WhatsApp group as “Mystery Melissa.” I don’t lose shoes.

Which is great, in theory but it also means that when Friday night rolls around, the question changes.

It’s not “Will I get home in one piece?” anymore.

It’s “Will I even leave the sofa?”

Do I Take Someone Home?

That’s the million-pound question. Not marriage material. Not even dating app “maybe we’ll grab a coffee” material. I’m talking about the casual, harmless, no-drama invite. A one-night cameo appearance in my otherwise PG-rated Netflix series.

Because on paper, it sounds simple: consenting adults, some light flirtation and no wine-soaked disasters but here’s where the sober brain gets in the way. My sober brain asks irritatingly practical questions:

Will they put their shoes on my sofa?
Will they judge my snack cupboard?
Will I have to make conversation before the main event?
Will they notice my “good towels” are from the discount section of Home Bargains?

The Fear of the Gossip Spiral

Then there’s The Gossip Factor.

You’d think as grown adults; people would be chill. They are not. If I bring someone home, there’s a 90% chance it will be:

Spotted by someone — because apparently, my road doubles as a community watch programme.
Fed into the rumour mill — within hours.
Dramatically exaggerated — by Monday morning, it will be “Melissa hosted an orgy in her front room and the neighbours are traumatised.”

Frankly, I haven’t got the energy to reassure anyone that my “wild night” involved one human, two mugs of tea, and Netflix buffering at a crucial scene.

The Dodgy Text Phase

Of course, there’s also the slippery slope. If I don’t just decide and go for it, my brain starts digging through the graveyard of exes and “nearly somethings.”

That guy who wore cowboy boots unironically.
The one who still owes me £20 from 2017.
The one who told me he was “emotionally unavailable” but then got engaged three weeks later and in the sober light of day, I know better. I know I’m not texting them but then there’s that dangerous witching hour where boredom and curiosity meet, suddenly I’m scrolling through old conversations thinking, Well, maybe just to say hi…

Next thing you know, I’ve typed something I think is casual but reads like I’m about to suggest a 3 a.m. elopement.

The Alternative: Fred & Silky PJ’s

Then there’s the other option: Switch off the phone. Put on music. Introduce my face to a sheet mask. Most importantly, let Fred the dressing gown do his job.

Fred has been through it all wine spills, post-breakup crying, bad Tinder dates. He’s the one constant. He doesn’t judge. He doesn’t care if I have a hairy leg or if I’ve been wearing the same pyjamas for two days. Fred is home and the silky PJ’s. Oh, that’s a statement. That’s me telling the world, yes, I am still desirable… just currently to myself.

The “Living the Dream” Myth

Society sells us this idea that “living your best life” is about saying yes to everything. Wild nights, questionable encounters, dancing on tables until dawn but what if living my best life is saying no sometimes? What if it’s not about missing out but about choosing?

I’ve done the table dancing. I’ve done the chaos. I’ve done the “oh God, what’s his name again?” mornings and they were fun… until they weren’t.

Now, the thrill isn’t in whether someone stays the night it’s in knowing I could but don’t have to.

The Temptation Still Lurks

Of course, I’m not going to pretend I don’t still have a tiny chaotic gremlin inside me. She lives for drama. She misses the chaos. She occasionally whispers things like, “Go on… text him… just for fun…”

Maybe one night I will. Maybe I’ll grab life by the horns, wear my most impractical heels, and invite someone over just for the story.

But tonight?

I think the story might be about not doing it. About choosing the silky PJ’s over the dodgy text. About turning my music up, ordering takeaway and dancing in the kitchen where only the fridge is judging me.

So… Do I? Don’t I?

The answer tonight is: Don’t.

Because the thing about this stage of life is, I don’t have to prove anything anymore. I don’t have to fill my weekends with chaos just to feel like I’m “living.”

Living is being able to laugh at the antics I’ve already had, knowing I can still have them again if I want but also knowing Fred, Netflix, and my silky PJ’s will never end in regret or a passive-aggressive text the next day.

That, my friends, is what you call growth.

PS: Check back next Friday. This entire post may age like milk if I cave to the chaos gremlin and end up writing about “The One with the Questionable Accent and My Missing Toothbrush.”

One Less Disaster Away

You know that feeling when life suddenly… stops?
Not in a peaceful “zen” way.
Not in a “I’ve finally found myself and my calling” way.
More like… everyone’s busy, my phone’s quieter than a church mouse, and I’m staring at my laptop wondering, is this it? Is my evening genuinely just going to be laundry, bad TV, and the leftover pasta I made two nights ago that’s now fused to the Tupperware like concrete?

That’s when it happens.
The itch.
The whisper.
The “just one more time” voice.

Tinder.

It’s ridiculous how quickly my self-control crumbles. I’ve sworn Tinder off more times than I’ve sworn off alcohol after a hangover. I’ve deleted it, blocked it, sent it to the shadow realm of “apps I don’t touch” on my phone and yet… there I am, reinstalling it like it’s the answer to all my problems.

In my head, I justify it. This is just for a look. I won’t even swipe. I’ll just check in, see what’s changed, maybe laugh at a profile or two.
Twenty minutes later, I’m deep into the “accidental swipe right” danger zone and matching with a man called Jack.

Jack still here.
(That’s what I typed. As if he’s been waiting for me all this time, standing outside the digital bar like a rejected extra from Love Actually.)

We do the usual small talk. The ritual dance of online dating.
“Why are you on here?” he asks and because I’ve lost the will to sell myself like a normal human, I just blurt:
“I’m crazy, mate. Don’t let the looks fool you.”

And he laughs.
Which is dangerous.
Because now I’m thinking maybe this one gets it.

We end up chatting for an hour. Harmless. A bit flirty. He suggests coffee and I, in a moment of temporary insanity brought on by boredom, agree.

Then comes the night before and that’s when my brain starts playing the highlight reel of my dating disasters.

Dating Disaster Flashback #1: The One Who Brought His Mum

Coffee date turned into coffee and his mother because, in his words, “She’s my best friend.”
They shared a muffin. I went home.

Dating Disaster Flashback #2: The Man with the ‘Marry Me Now’ Eyes

Met him at a bar. He told me within 20 minutes he’d “been manifesting me” and that we were “probably twin flames.”
I manifested my way to the bathroom and out the back door.

And now here I am, thinking about Jack.
There’s something in his texts… the “marry me now” vibes are loud.
Not in a cute rom-com way.
More in a “by the second coffee he’s suggesting baby names” way.

I sit there all night, mentally building excuses.
“I’ve been unwell.”
“My cat died.”
“I’ve joined a cult.”
“I’m already married to a man named Pablo who lives in my garden shed.”

By 11pm, I’ve worked myself into such a frenzy that the only logical thing to do is delete the app entirely.
Not just log out, delete because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that when I’m in chaos mode, I can’t trust myself to not go back in and undo my own escape plan.

Delete. Gone.
Like Jack never existed.
Like I didn’t just spend a whole day messaging him and wondering what he’d look like holding a coffee cup.

The next morning, I wake up with the sort of peace people write books about.
I didn’t meet him.
I didn’t get trapped in another three-week situationship where I end up pretending to like fishing or agreeing to meet his dog that he dresses in outfits.
I didn’t get the “So what are we?” talk after date two.

I just… went to bed one less disaster away and honestly, there’s a strange comfort in that.
It’s like I’ve learned to see the cliff edge before I walk off it in heels.
Growth, baby.
(Or maybe just cowardice. Either way, I’ll take it.)

Now, I know what you’re thinking.
“Melissa, what if Jack was The One?”
To which I say: absolutely not.
Because if Jack was The One, he’d have appeared in my life without me reinstalling Tinder during a boredom-induced breakdown.
He would’ve been in Tesco, reaching for the same bag of pasta as me and we’d have laughed and married in six months, obviously.

Plus, the “marry me now” vibe is exhausting.
I don’t want to be someone’s whole world before they’ve even learned my middle name.
I want mystery. Chase. Mild emotional unavailability.
(You know, the healthy stuff.)

So now I’m back in the quiet.
The friends are still busy.
The pasta is still stuck to the Tupperware but I have my dignity.
Well… most of it.

Somewhere out there, Jack is probably still waiting in the digital bar, holding a coffee for a woman who’s not coming.

Moral of the Story:
Sometimes it’s not about finding the right person.
Sometimes it’s about recognising the wrong one early enough to save yourself the dry-cleaning bill, the emotional energy and the awkward “I think we should just be friends” text.

Also, sometimes the best kind of date… is the one you cancel.

So Then You Think…

So, then you think…

The easy option.
The safe bet.
The one you know will adore you, buy you flowers, tag you in relatable memes and still think you’re gorgeous when you’re on day three of dry shampoo and wearing your “laundry day” leggings.

You don’t fancy them. Not even a little. In fact, if we’re being brutally honest, they could be standing in front of you holding a giant cheque, a puppy and a bowl of hot chips and you’d still feel nothing but the urge to say, “Aw, thanks mate,” before bolting and yet.

There’s that tiny, bored, insecure little gremlin in your brain that whispers:
Come on. You’ve had a dry spell. He’ll adore you. You can just… date him until you get your confidence back.

Here’s the thing: I have finally reached the point where I’m putting the phone down. Literally. Phone on the table. Walk away. Hide in the bathroom if I must because we are not texting the easy option.

Why? Because I am a woman of growth.
A mature, self-aware, emotionally responsible adult.
(Also, my therapist told me to stop “collecting” men like mismatched mugs just because I’m scared of the cupboard being empty.)

The Old Me vs The New Me

The old me? Oh, she’d have texted him in five minutes flat. Probably something vague and manipulative like, “Hey stranger”, which is woman-code for “I’m bored, give me attention but I will absolutely ghost you later.”

The old me thrived on male attention the way plants thrive on sunlight and by “thrived,” I mean wilted pathetically without it and clung to any source, even if it was a flickering LED lightbulb from Poundland.

The new me is better. She drinks water, sets boundaries and understands that hurting someone’s feelings to keep your ego inflated is a morally bankrupt move even if your hair looks amazing that day and your selfie game is on fire.

Growth is uncomfortable. Especially when you’re used to validation being a tap you can just turn on.

That Little Voice

You know what I’m talking about that “easy option” temptation usually strikes late at night.
You’re sitting there, glass of wine in hand, staring at your phone. All your friends are busy. The guy you fancy hasn’t replied since 2019. Your ex is probably engaged to a woman called Daisy who bakes sourdough and then… there they are in your DMs.
The safe one. The nice one. The one who likes all your stories, even the one where you were crying in the car park because Tesco was out of your favourite hummus.

The little voice says, “Just message him. What’s the harm?”

Oh, I’ll tell you the harm:
The harm is that you’ll accidentally fall into a “situationship” you never wanted and suddenly you’re having to invent excuses for why you can’t meet his mum.

The Ego Trap

Let’s not lie to ourselves half the reason we entertain the easy option is because we want to feel wanted.

Nothing hits quite like that ping from your phone telling you someone thinks you’re the most incredible thing since sliced bread (and yes, in my world, sliced bread is still the gold standard of wonderful things) but here’s the kicker: that rush of attention?
It’s like eating a packet of crisps when you’re starving. Sure, it feels good for five minutes but then you’re still hungry, a bit guilty and wondering why you didn’t just make a proper meal.

I used to confuse “adoration” with “connection.” I thought if someone worshipped the ground I walked on, it was basically love. Spoiler alert: sometimes it’s just obsession mixed with loneliness and I’m not trying to feature in anyone’s sad little shrine fantasy.

Practising Restraint (Or at Least Trying)

Last week, I had my first real test.

I was sat in bed, scrolling through TikTok, when his name popped up. The one I know would send me flowers if I so much as sneezed in his direction.
“Hey, how’ve you been?”
Oh, the sweet, dangerous pull of it.

The old me would’ve fired back instantly. Something flirty but plausible deniable.
The new me? I stared at the screen, felt the little ego balloon inflate… and then I put the phone face down and went to make a cup of tea.

I did spend the next hour pacing like an addict in withdrawal, but I didn’t text him back. Progress.

How I Knew I’d Grown

The real turning point was when I realised this wasn’t about “playing hard to get” it was about not playing at all.

I didn’t want to start something knowing I’d never be interested. I didn’t want to lead someone on just to hear my own phone ping. I didn’t want to make a human being a filler episode in my love life.

Because honestly? That’s just mean. And I’ve been on the receiving end of it. I know what it feels like when someone uses you to pass the time until someone better comes along and it’s not flattering. It’s infuriating.

I also realised… it’s sexier to not be available all the time. Who knew? Turns out, saying no to people you don’t fancy doesn’t make you a dried-up spinster it makes you someone with standards. Revolutionary.

My Advice (That I Probably Won’t Follow in 6 Months)

If you find yourself tempted by the easy option, try this:

Picture dating them long-term. If your first reaction is “Oh god, no,” put the phone down.
Ask yourself why you’re reaching out. Is it genuine interest, or are you just bored/lonely/avoiding folding laundry?
Remember karma. Using someone for attention will absolutely come back around probably in the form of a man who strings you along while still “figuring himself out.”
Eat a snack. I swear half my bad dating decisions were just low blood sugar.

They say growth is knowing when to walk away.
I think growth is knowing when not to walk towards something in the first place.

So here I am, with my phone on silent, resisting the urge to poke at the easy option like it’s some emergency dating safety net. Because I don’t need a safety net anymore I’m learning to enjoy the high-wire act of waiting for something real.

It’s quieter, sure. Less exciting in the moment but you know what? My ego will survivend if it doesn’t… well, I’ll just get a haircut. Works every time.

The Tesco Meal Deal That Sealed My Fate

I never meant to get engaged that day.
Honestly, I just wanted a sandwich.

It all started with a Tesco Meal Deal because that’s where all great love stories begin, in fluorescent lighting, holding a bottle of Diet Coke and a reduced chicken Caesar wrap, wondering if you’ll die alone or just from the preservatives.

He was behind me in the queue.
Bearded, tanned, holding a bag of Monster Munch and a bottle of Evian like a man who hydrated AND snacked, which is rare these days.

I looked rough.
And I don’t mean “cute, messy bun” rough. I mean “mascara under my eyes, hoodie that smells like regret and haven’t shaved my legs since Christmas” rough.

He said, “Go ahead,” gesturing at the self-checkout.
I said, “Thanks,” in my best seductive nasal tone because my hay fever was flaring and I sounded like a Victorian orphan and that was it.
We ended up outside. Chatting.
He said he liked my vibe (probably because I was giving 'unhinged but nurturing').
I laughed, said something about the price of oat milk, and before I knew it, he was adding me on Instagram, and we were messaging like star-crossed lovers… with seasonal allergies.

Three days later, we were on a date.
Two weeks later, he was staying over.
A month in, he’d moved half his wardrobe into my flat and was calling my dog “our baby.”
Somewhere between sharing Netflix accounts and arguing over the correct way to load a dishwasher, he proposed.

With a ring.
From Argos.
Still in the plastic packaging.
While we were watching Come Dine with Me.

I said yes.
Why?
Because I thought it was a joke.
A cute, chaotic, ironic moment that we’d laugh about over wine and bad choices but he wasn’t joking.
He told his mum.
Changed his Facebook status.
Started Googling venues and texting me things like, “Do you prefer roses or lilies?”

I was still trying to decide if I liked his face.

At this point, I was too emotionally malnourished to stop the train.
We weren’t even in love, we were just traumatically compatible.
He hated commitment. I hated myself. It worked but the red flags were flagging.
He didn’t have a job. Or a hobby.
He called himself “an entrepreneur” but the only thing he’d successfully launched was a failed YouTube channel about cryptocurrency and herbal tea.

He also had one single towel.
One.
A grey, crusty towel that smelt like mould and ambition.
He brought it to my flat and insisted on using it even though I offered him fresh ones like a normal person. He said it had “sentimental value.”

It was from Primark.

Things escalated fast.
He wanted joint bank accounts.
He started referring to me as “the missus.”
Told the postman we were “saving for a house” when he owed me £40 for pizza and still hadn’t paid council tax since 2019.

The worst part?
I kept going along with it.
Smiling. Nodding.
Pretending I believed in fate and horoscopes and not screaming internally every time he used my good conditioner.

I even downloaded a wedding planning app.
For fun.
Just to “see what was out there.”
Next thing I knew, I was deep into Pinterest boards for table centrepieces and Googling “how to politely uninvite a future husband.”

My friends were concerned.
They started texting things like:

“Are you okay?”
“Do you actually like him or are you just cold at night?”
“Blink twice if you’re being held emotionally hostage.”

I blinked.
Twice and still stayed another week because he made good, scrambled eggs and my heating wasn’t working.

The turning point came when he suggested we get matching tattoos.
Matching. Tattoos.
Of each other’s names.
In cursive.
With a little infinity symbol and a quote from Fast & Furious underneath.

That was my sign.
That was my “get out while you still have your own surname” moment.

I staged a breakup.
I told him I needed space to “rediscover myself.”
What I meant was “I can’t spend another day pretending your podcast idea is revolutionary when it’s just you ranting about loyalty and protein.”

He cried.
I cried.
My dog farted and ruined the moment.
It was beautiful but like every man I’ve ever broken up with, he left with dignity, respect, and my good hairdryer.
Still owes me £40 and a bit of my will to live.

I saw on Instagram he’s now “healing” with a girl named Sapphire who sells crystals and calls him “her twin flame.”

You’re welcome, babe.
He uses proper towels now and eats hummus.
I trained him well.

As for me?

Back to solitude.
To reading self-help books I’ll never finish.
To pretending I enjoy yoga.
To standing in Tesco, staring at sandwiches and wondering how I ended up engaged to a man who once used the phrase “alpha energy” during foreplay.

Here’s the thing:

I don’t regret it.
Every accidental fiancé, every romantic misfire, every chaotic Tinder story each one is a chapter in this tragicomic novel I call a love life because I’ve realised something…
I don’t need a partner.
I need peace and maybe a restraining order against my taste in men.

So, until someone comes along who doesn’t need fixing, babysitting or reminding that “no contact” applies to his ex and not basic hygiene…

The One Where I Accidentally Got Engaged to My Ex (Thanks to Three Shots of Tequila and a Drunken Bet)

It all started at 11:47 PM on a Wednesday a night that looked innocent enough on the surface but like all disasters, had the subtle charm of a ticking bomb disguised as a cocktail umbrella. I was at my friend Jess’s birthday party, which was basically a slightly sad pub with fairy lights and a playlist that alternated between 2000s boy bands and whatever she thought sounded “vibey” and there he was. My ex. My pathetically still-in-love-with-him ex. The one who, in retrospect, probably spent most of our relationship perfecting his “I’m emotionally unavailable but also devastatingly charming” act. Naturally, he had that exact same look on his face now: the “I hope she’s noticed how well I’ve aged” gaze.

I tried to ignore him. I really did. I sipped my wine (red, obviously because I’m dramatic) and pretended to be engaged in a passionate debate with the DJ about whether Toxic by Britney Spears qualified as a timeless bop or a tragic anthem for anyone who ever made a bad life choice but fate, in the form of my equally terrible decision-making, intervened.

“Hey,” he said. That word. That single syllable, delivered with the exact combination of nostalgia and arrogance that made me want to simultaneously slap him and forgive him.

“Hi,” I replied cautiously, which was the adult version of tripping over your own feet.

We exchanged those ex-to-ex niceties: “You look… good.” “Thanks, you too. So healthy!” And the real kicker: we both knew it was a lie. I was still rocking day-old mascara, and he looked like he’d showered just enough to pretend to be socially acceptable.

Enter Jess, the instigator of all chaos. Jess had been watching this awkward reunion like a hawk, probably imagining a sitcom montage with our misery as the punchline.

“You two should do a little bet,” she said, already drunk enough to confuse ‘friendship’ with ‘game show producer.’

“A bet?” I asked, suspicious.

“Yes!” She pointed at my ex. “Do shots together, flirt like you’re dating again for five minutes, and whoever backs out buys the next round for everyone.”

I blinked. That was it. Three words had undone years of careful emotional barricading. A drunken bet.

Somehow, before I could logically object, we were at the bar, each clutching a shot glass that probably contained something lethal and sticky, likely named “Fire in the Hole” or “Regret in Liquid Form.”

“Ready?” my ex smirked. His smirk. That one. The one I should’ve remembered never ended well.

I was ready. Not mentally, not emotionally but my liver had been doing push-ups all night and decided now was the time to surrender.

Three shots later, I realized two things:

I was dangerously giggly.
My ex was dangerously charming.

We were swaying slightly, not quite in rhythm but enough to make Jess clap enthusiastically and yell, “Yes! Chemistry!”

Then came the line that would haunt me forever: “If you’re so good at pretending, propose!”

“What?” I said, nearly choking on my third shot.

“You heard me,” he said, grinning like the cat who just knocked over the whole milk carton. “Fake proposal. For the bet. I dare you.”

Here’s the kicker: in the haze of alcohol and poor judgment, I didn’t say no.

We stumbled outside for “fresh air,” which is code for, “Let’s make terrible decisions away from witnesses who might stop us.”

A group of strangers also drunk, also confused cheered us on. Someone produced a pen, another a beer mat and in a haze of giggles and bravado, I did it.

I knelt. I waved the beer mat like it was Tiffany & Co. packaging.

“Will you marry me?” I slurred, because of course, I was slurring.

He gasped dramatically. “Yes! Absolutely!” he said, taking my hand like I was handing over a winning lottery ticket rather than a flimsy piece of cardboard.

We kissed. Possibly. I’m not entirely sure. There are gaps in my memory from this point forward.

By the time we re-entered the pub, Jess had posted about it on Instagram: “OMG THEY SAID YES!!! #BetEngagement #TequilaTrueLove”.

I stared at my phone, wondering if I could delete my entire life from the internet.

Morning came, merciless and hangover heavy.

I woke up in my own bed alone, thankfully but with a text from him saying:

“Best night ever. Can’t wait to plan our wedding. Do you prefer roses or lilies?”

Roses or lilies. For the love of God, it was 9 AM. I couldn’t even choose which cereal to eat without existential dread and then the realization hit: I had accidentally accepted an engagement proposal from my ex. A man whose hobbies included watching conspiracy theory videos on YouTube, collecting novelty socks and bragging about his fantasy football team like it was a startup company.

I Googled: “Can you legally cancel an engagement made during a drunken bet?”

No relevant results. Only articles about annulments, pre-nuptials’ and couples suing each other for emotional damages after regrettable nights.

I called Jess.

“Oh no, babe,” she said, between laughter and panic. “You didn’t sign anything, right?”

I wasn’t sure. I remembered a pen, a beer mat, and possibly an old receipts envelope.

He was over the next evening. With flowers. From Lidl. Not roses, not lilies but a mix of something wilted and suspiciously aromatic.

He started making long-term plans. “We should buy a house.”
“We should get a dog.”
“We should open a joint Instagram for our couple aesthetic.”

I tried to explain the concept of boundaries. He laughed, thinking it was foreplay.

I tried to leave. He grabbed my hoodie. “Don’t go! I was serious about the proposal!”

I realized then that I had created a Frankenstein’s monster of my own making.

Things spiralled.

We were now “engaged,” as per the drunken bet but living separately, which somehow made it worse. People at Tesco congratulated me in the frozen aisle. My mum sent passive-aggressive texts:

“Finally! I knew someone would appreciate you!”

Meanwhile, my ex started calling me “fiancée” in public. At pubs, at the bus stop, even at the dentist.

I spent an entire Tuesday trying to explain to my dental hygienist that no, we were not actually planning a wedding and yes, it was still awkward.

He, of course, ignored my protests.

The Breaking Point: Tattoos and Infinity Symbols

The climax came with a conversation about tattoos.

“Let’s get matching ones,” he said.

“Oh, what? Cute!” I replied, still thinking he meant a tiny paw print or a heart.

“No, our names. Infinity symbol. Quote from Fast & Furious.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. My brain performed a hard reset.

I said something that should have been obvious: “This is… insane.”

He didn’t hear me. He had already Googled tattoo parlours.

I staged a breakup so gentle it could have been an art installation:

“I need time to find myself,” I said, dramatically waving my hand while holding a cup of lukewarm tea.

He cried. It was emotionally complicated.

I left with my dignity intact. Mostly and a warning: never, ever, let alcohol, exes, or peer pressure collide in the same evening.

Every time my ex opened his mouth post engagement, I had to actively pretend I was a spy in a high-stakes thriller.

“He said ‘fiancée’ again. Maintain eye contact. Nod. Slowly back away. Breathe. Pretend you like hummus as much as he does.”

He had a peculiar habit of using my name in conversation like a chant.
“Melissa, we could totally redecorate our bathroom together.”
No. Stop. “Melissa, think about our life together.”
I slowly nodded while silently plotting to move to a different postal code.

Friends’ Advice (Also Hilarious)

I confided in my friends, who were all equally traumatized yet morbidly entertained.

“Just tell him the engagement is null and void,” said Laura, the realist.
“You can’t just do that,” I replied.
“Yes, you can. It’s a drunken bet. Alcohol makes contracts void,” I tried not to cry with hope.

“Or… keep him. Free rent, free eggs, free chaos,” said Sam.
I considered this. Briefly. Then I remembered the Fast & Furious tattoo.

The story leaked. Somehow, the pub photos went viral in my friend circle. People started sending me GIFs of celebratory champagne and sarcastic emojis.

One person even messaged:
“Congrats! Can’t wait for the wedding. Will there be a theme?”

I nearly replied: “Yes. Unicorns, tequila, and emotional trauma.”

A month later, he was on Instagram. Engaged. Again. Same ring. Apparently, Sapphire was his “twin flame” and sold overpriced crystals.

I, meanwhile, treated myself to a hairdryer that worked, a large pizza and a renewed sense of sanity.

I stood in Tesco last weekend, staring at sandwiches, contemplating the precarious balance of my life choices and maybe a restraining order against my taste in men.

Every accidental fiancé, every chaotic Tinder story, every drunken misstep is a chapter in the tragicomic novel that is my love life.

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