Ironclad evidence than I am an awful human
Oh god, oh god, oh god. I need to tell you about a horrible date, but if I do, I'll make myself look horrible - but then again I am horrible, so here goes. About a week or so ago, tail wedged firmly between my legs, I reactivated Tinder on my phone. I don't have an excuse, but Andy Murray had just lost at Wimbledon and I was feeling vulnerable. My first match was with a decent looking chap called Tom who sent me a message the next day suggesting we do something fun. I replied: "God no, I hate fun, let's make each other miserable instead". A few minutes later my phone buzzed. "Excellent", he said, "how about an evening of undermining each other's confidence, I know a nice little restaurant we can have a seething argument in". "Stop it, you dreamboat", I replied, and so it continued until we met for a date.
The date was bad primarily because he wasn't 'as described' on Tinder and I'm sure he saw the disappointment register on my face which then made him nervous and when people are nervous they say crazy things, so before long he was jabbering mindlessly and asking me what size shoe I wore (I warned you this doesn't make me look good). Also, his teeth were not the best, and he mentioned his mum at least three times in the first 20 minutes.
In his defence, when not faced with a woman currently more interested in Cornettos and Netflix than dating, he is probably a clever, sweet and humorous guy. I left him at the Tube station, feeling like crap for making him feel like crap, and decided that is the last time I drag myself out on a half-hearted date. Because for now at least I'm blissfully content falling asleep every night with four pillows to choose from and pottering around my room for 45 minutes every morning with no one there to complain that my hairdryer sounds like a Fiat 500 with a potato shoved up the exhaust pipe, or commenting that I have 'some appetite' if I put a second slice of bread in the toaster. I might be horrible, but I'm happy.