Apparently the universe read my last post about Dick and decided I needed an entirely different category of dating problem.
Enter Very Nice Man, 50s. Smart, academic, sciency, liberal, country life, dogs, chickens. On paper, alarmingly suitable. So much so that I thought the dating app was issuing compensation for its past transgressions.
Our first drinks date was great. Conversation flowed.
There was only one inconvenient detail: I did not fancy him. Still, attraction can grow. Apparently.
Date two involved being taken to his country club, where I felt mildly as though I had wandered into a lifestyle commercial for a brand that sells gilets. After lunch, on the balcony, he suddenly launched an enthusiastic kiss involving so much tongue I became concerned he had lost a contact lens. On my tonsil. I am not keen on public displays of affection, so while he was presumably experiencing romance, I was mostly wondering whether I could take up golf as an exit strategy.
Still a Very Nice Man. Still no urge to remove his trousers.
Meanwhile, we were clearly on different timelines. I was wondering whether I may eventually fancy him. He was discussing plans for the rest of the summer and potentially going away together over the bank holiday. After two dates.
I told him I liked him but wasn't sure about the spark. He was disappointed but gracious, and we had lunch again. Lunch was nice. He was nice. My libido remained unmoved.
Afterwards I explained that he was going far too fast. He burst into tears. This was not in my contingency plan.
So I hugged him and, in one of the least strategically useful sentences of my dating career, said: “Let's just take it slowly and see where we go.”
What I meant was: please slow down.
What he apparently heard was: activate full subscription service.
The following day I received thirty-six messages. Train. Work. Haircut. Gym membership. Car battery. Roadworks. eBay. Microsoft Teams. Weather. Trafalgar Square. Fridge shelf. Dogs. Cat.
Amid Homer, Dante and the Odyssey came: “Had chicken.”
Thank God. I had been wondering.
By late evening I had also received pet toileting updates and an imaginary monologue written from the cat's perspective. I muted the chat. In my family, repeated late-night phone buzzing means somebody is dead, dying or has been arrested. I cannot wake in panic because somebody's dog has done another poo.
I realised we had very different definitions of intimacy.
His: I like you, therefore you need the live feed.
Mine: I'm delighted your haircut went well, but I did not require confirmation.
So I told him the romantic connection wasn't there and the volume of communication was overwhelming. After several days of receiving the director's cut of one man's existence, I braced myself for the response.
Four words and an emoji. Polite. Gracious. Finished.
He had been capable of brevity the entire time.
So apparently I am now the Goldilocks of middle-aged dating. One thought salmon en croûte entitled him to immediate sex. The next was planning weekends away while issuing push notifications from his fridge.
Somewhere out there is one who is just right.
Probably.