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...