Notes from My Single Self

A quick bit of context

I wrote my first ever blog post in 2015. I was 24, single, and fully convinced that everyone worth having had already been snapped up by someone better organised, less chaotic, or at the very least, less me.

I’ve been with my husband for over seven years now. This blog isn’t about him, and it isn’t about our relationship. This is about everything that came before that. The almosts, the near misses, the lessons I didn’t realise I was learning at the time, and the behaviour I once considered completely normal.

Back then, I called this my Singtroduction.

Dating, circa 2015

I was sat on a Saturday night with a large glass of Pinot Grigio, reminiscing on the happy, sad and, most obviously, cringeworthy dating experiences I’d managed to pack into what felt like a very long eight years.

I was a serial Tinder user. Emphasis on was. We’ve since broken up, as I did with every other near-boyfriend experience.

And as nice as some of them were, let’s call a spade a spade: the odds of meeting an undamaged, good-looking, interesting, emotionally stable, non-psycho stalker on a free dating app (linked to your Facebook), featuring your “Ibifa” photos, and evidence of you falling out of clubs with one shoe on and kebab sauce down a once-white t-shirt – were slim.

The Tinder Sale Rack Theory

That’s like saying the sale rack in Primark contains:

• all the right sizes
• anything remotely fashionable
• items with no damage whatsoever
• and a pattern someone actually wanted

Tinder, for me, was the bottom of the barrel.

The Bottom of the Barrel

The unpopped corn at the end of the bowl.
The last sip of a drink that’s more melted ice than alcohol.
The heels of the bread nobody wants but everyone pretends they’re fine with.

It was the drunk decision you wake up regretting.
The doner kebab you swore you’d never eat again.
The cigarette you smoked after quitting.
The last drink that tipped you over the edge.

Yes, people meet on Tinder. It happens. But in my experience, it was rare — and usually preceded by sifting through dick pics, poor grammar, and an alarming lack of personality or conversational ability.

Preparing for the Date (A Sport in Itself)

And when you did find someone worth meeting? That was an experience in itself.

The three glasses of wine required to get you out the door to a public pub.
The carbs to line your stomach so you don’t become white-girl-wasted after one drink.
The hissy fit because nothing looks nice.
And finally, the realisation that you’re probably not going to like him anyway, so why do you care what you’re wearing — or the wine’s kicked in and you’re more interested in ordering another drink than impressing anyone.

Why This Blog Exists

This blog started there.

I was single. I was 24. And it felt like everyone worth having was already taken. So what was a girl to do other than write about it, laugh about it, cry about it, and continue handing her number out in bars and clubs until the right one eventually took the bait?

Looking back now, I can see patterns I couldn’t see then. Red flags I mistook for quirks. Logic that only made sense if you were living inside it. I can also see that I had my whole life ahead of me to panic about meeting (or re-meeting) the right one…

Looking Back, With Hindsight

These are those stories.
Rewritten with hindsight.
But very much as they were at the time.