If it works, I’ll be cruising through meet-ups on a kind of irresistible autopilot. My four o’clock, J from Lovestruck, is an attractive career woman in her forties. Arranging dates in a small geographical area is vital if you’re stacking, but timing is a minefield. I dribble out the same chat and by the fourth date, I just want to go home.
But there’s a lot of catching up to do, as I discover when I sign up for a dozen sites, apps and singles nights. A couple of hours beforehand I have a pep talk with dating expert Hayley Quinn, who warns me that coffee dates often seem like job interviews. Not a single one of my marathon dates contacts me for a second meet-up. I head to a Mayfair nightclub for speed dating (originaldating.com), counting each four-minute contact as 0.25 of a date.
These men should slap themselves until they stop acting like 13-year old girls.
First of all, there’s nothing to justify the guy’s interest in her, other than the fact that she’s a female and she has a pulse.
I used to, and I think at times I might even have enjoyed it. S from Tinder is smiley and chatty with faultless social skills. Wine with M from Lovestruck – the first date I’ve really enjoyed, and the first woman I found attractive just by looking at her photo.
But after one romantic disaster too many, I reviewed my dating history and concluded there was something wrong either with a) every girl I’d ever dated or b) me. R from Lovestruck is Japanese – lovely, totally incomprehensible. When she was a baby she was kissed by Marshal Tito. She’s Italian, sort of like a sexless Sophia Loren. The algorithms that sites such as Lovestruck use to match people seem somewhat redundant post-Tinder, where appearance is everything. After a couple of false starts, I unwittingly use a blinding opener to attract C: “Nice bracelet.” This half-arsed hello is, remarkably, golden.
It doesn’t come across as genuine interest; it comes across as desperation.
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