The One Who Was a Wee Bit Camp

When we began When Two Go Dating, I had a rule; I didn’t write about the nice guys. I refused to divulge details regardless of how weird the date. I’ve since decided that enough time has passed and they’re now fair game – sort of like time limits imposed by the Freedom of Information Act.  Also, I’m no longer on so they have no way of tracking me down.

I’ll fill you in a bit on the difficulties of leaving a dating website in due course, but first let me regale you with the tale of the One Who Was a Wee Bit Camp…

The gentleman in question was one of the first guys I got chatting to when I joined Match.  I had some initial reservations, but on the whole he seemed quite normal…

The reservations I had do not paint me in a good light – one might even accuse me of being a little shallow – but hey, I’m all about the honesty, and these things put me off:

  • He was wearing an Xmas pudding jumper in one profile picture (this was in August).
  • He was wearing pink lycra in another (some sponsored cycle thing, but still…)
  • He weighed less than me.

How do I know he weighed less than me?  Well, I can cite this fact with absolute certainty, because he stated his weight on his profile.

One word: why?

It’s not like weight is a compulsory field – you have to state your age, and whether you’re male or female, and other important stuff, but sharing your weight with the world is entirely optional.  The only folks I can think of who may be a bit partial to this sort of information are Fatties and Feeders (and if you don’t know what I’m referring to, you’re clearly not up-to-date with your Channel 4 documentaries…)

In the grand scheme of things, Xmas jumpers, pink lycra, and a tendency to be blown away by a sharp gust of wind are not things to discourage me entirely from arranging a date.  This is how it came about that I met up with the One Who Was a Wee Bit Camp.

I rocked up to the date wearing my running gear.  In retrospect, I’m not quite sure what was going through my head.  I think I suspected he may be resplendent in his pink lycra (nothing like trying to make someone feel comfortable in your matchingly-lycraed presence…), I may have been attempting to prove a point, and I definitely can’t have fancied him all that much from his profile… Disappointingly, he arrived wearing chinos and a very chunky jumper (so chunky, in fact, I was unable to gauge the accuracy of his declared weight).  I was already at the bar when he got to the pub (the same pub where I met the Rude Teacher from Date 1, incidentally), so we had to do that exceedingly awkward introductory thing in full earshot of the bar staff.

Is that him?  It looks a bit like him…He doesn’t look too weird…Nah, it can’t be him…But what if it is him?… I need to stop looking…If it’s not him, he’ll think I’m a perv… He looks a little on the heavy side… But then that is a very chunky knit…It could be him…He’s looking up…it must be him…What if it’s not him…He’s staring back… I’m going in… “Hi, you must be…? “

Give me a smear test over those excruciating first few moments of a first date any day.

It was him.  But take it from me, it would have made the barkeeps’ night had it been a case of mistaken identity.

I asked him what he wanted to drink, he asked me what I was drinking (pint of ale) and requested a pint of lager.

So far, so good.

Before I go on, please allow me to pause here and tell you about the absolute best (read: worst) first date I ever witnessed from behind the bar  kind of involved myself in… (listening in on bad first dates is most definitely a perk of the job)…

It was a weekday evening, and an attractive blonde woman in her (at a guess) late 40’s came into the pub with a much younger man (her son, I presumed).  She went to the loo and he approached the bar and ordered drinks.  He was conventionally good-looking (gelled hair and arrogant air) and cocky with it.  You know the type – all wide-legged swagger and leering glances accompanied by ‘Darlin’ this and ‘Babe’ that. I asked him for ID. (I frequently demand ID from guys who call me ‘Babe’ regardless of how old they look – another perk of the job). This one was only 18.

Attractive Blonde returned from the toilet, sat beside him at the bar, took a gulp of her wine and screwed up her face (I didn’t blame her; he’d ordered her a glass of Chardonnay). I carried on serving but couldn’t help noticing their body language – by this point it had become VERY apparent that this was no mother/son relationship (if it was, Freud would have been having a field day). He was pawing at her as she looked increasingly uncomfortable and began knocking back the nasty wine like her life depended on it.  I heard snippets of conversation – he kept loudly mentioning the army (accompanied by a hand being placed on her thigh) and she referred to her son a few times (punctuated by her re-crossing her legs in an attempt to dislodge it).  I witnessed him repeatedly invade her personal space whilst she rolled her eyes and tried to edge away.

After a while, he went in search of the loos and she beckoned me over.  “I’m feeling really awkward; can you tell there’s a big age gap?  We met online and he never said he was so young, I mean he’s only 24, that’s younger than my son… Do we look ridiculous?” she asked me.

Oh the dilemma.

Now, if there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s liars (that and being called ‘Babe’ by cocky wee scrotes) and I liked her and felt she deserved the truth. So I informed her of his actual age and then stood back and watched.  She brought the date to an abrupt end as soon as he sauntered back from the toilet and took up his position at the bar.   I wish there had been more drama, but it was obvious it wasn’t her style – she merely finished her drink and said her goodbyes (rather disappointing).  He opened and closed his mouth a few times as she expertly stepped away from him to avoid any goodbye embraces (a slobbery 18 year old tongue aimed at the back of her throat would have been my guess), and instead gave him a small wave and strode out the door.

Kudos to you, lady.

Anyway, back to my slightly less disastrous date with the diminutive man with the penchant for stretchy pink clothing….

We got on okay, but had very little in common. I quickly established that he was mortified by the fact he had ‘resorted’ to online dating.  I would have put good money on the fact he would encourage any potential partner to pretend that they met somewhere more ‘acceptable’ (maybe bonding over their matching Xmas jumpers in the local ‘Spoons… Or perhaps they could say one of them stopped to fix the other’s puncture during a sponsored cycle and their eyes had locked over the special puncture-fixing tool or something).  I, on the other hand, am not remotely ashamed of my foray into online dating and found the fact he was clearly embarrassed a little extremely off-putting.

By now it was his round (I’d been nursing an empty glass for an embarrassingly long time; he was only a third of the way down his lager).  I could already sense that this may not be a match made in heaven…

He asked me what I wanted and I requested a pint of ale but not the one I’d been drinking (it was a bit mingin’ but I’d STILL managed to drink it three times faster than him…)

He didn’t know what ale was.  He did not know what a pint of ale was. I assured him the bar staff would…

He arrived back with my pint (“The barmaid did know what I was talking about!” he exclaimed) and a girly cider for himself.  I’m sorry if I sound sexist, but don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean!  It was pastel in colour and resided in the type of glass receptacle more fitting to an arrangement of flowers.  He placed the bottle on the table (it wouldn’t all fit in as there was so much ice in the glass – don’t get me started on why it suddenly became trendy to water down cider with ice) and I read the label.  It was Rosehip and Pomegranate with a Twist of Lychee flavour.  Or maybe Mixed Pink Berries with a Hint of Elderflower Sparkle.  Or something.  He pushed his barely touched lager to the side and announced that he didn’t like lager but had panicked because I was drinking a pint and accidentally ordered it…

Accidentally ordered it.

I want to say that I don’t judge people based on what they drink, but that would be a blatant lie.  Anyway, I work in a pub; it’s my job! I totally judge folks who drink jagerbombs on a Monday, clearly I judge those who choose Chardonnay when there are other options available, I judge people who ask for Guinness shandies (true story) and yes, I judge anyone who orders anything containing more sugar than a pint of Ribena.  Turned out my date only liked drinks I associate with being a teenager (and girly cider obviously, which wasn’t invented back then) and make me feel slightly nauseous every time I have to serve one… So, to reiterate, all the drinks that you drank before you acquired a taste for lovely, delicious proper alcoholic beverages like wine and beer:

Peach Schnapps – tick

Malibu and lemonade – tick

Bacardi Breezers – tick (but very difficult to find these days, apparently)

Amaretto – tick


My teeth are hurting just thinking about it.

Alas, it soon became apparent that his taste in alcoholic beverages was not his only penchant that made me feel a little sicky and set my teeth on edge.  It was right about this point that we got onto the topic of music…

His favourite artists were… Wait for it….

Katherine Jenkins


It gets worse…

Much, much worse…

Mariah Carey.

Mariah. Fu*%ing Carey.

Now there’s a certain amount of mismatch in musical taste that I can just about get past… But this, well this was a whole other kettle of fish. A veritable ABOMINATION.  Mariah-all-I-want-for-fuc*ing-Xmas-Carey.

As soon as I pulled myself together and managed to stop opening and closing my mouth, I swiftly changed the subject.

Films.  He was a self-proclaimed “film buff”.  Okay.  This I could get on board with. Everything may not yet be lost… I did a film studies module at Uni. I know my Hitchcocks.  I can argue about how Citizen Kane is the most overrated film of all time with the best of them… This had to be better than the music chat…

“Name one of your favourite films ever” said I (please please don’t say Citizen Kane)

Titanic” said he.

I laughed.  Of course I did! Oh, how I laughed.

“No really, name one of your favourite films!”

“I just did.”




Him: (defensively) “You think I’m gay, don’t you?”

Me: (equally defensively) “Did I say that?”

Him: “No.  But you do think I’m camp.”

It was a statement as opposed to a question.

We actually had a really enjoyable rest-of-date.  By this point we had established beyond a shadow of a doubt that we had nothing in common and did not fancy each other in the slightest, but we were also getting a bit tipsy and he was really good company. I had such a good time (a proper face-hurting-from-laughing good time) that I actually messaged the girls the next day saying I thought I might go out with him again.  It was at this point that Amy gave me some sage advice:

“If you can see yourself going for a pedicure with him more than you can see yourself going to bed with him, don’t go on another date.”

I followed her advice and haven’t seen him since, although I did text him a few times for my own amusement and to ask him really pertinent questions like “What’s your favourite Celine Dion song?” (Obviously the girls had money on My Heart Will Go On and he obliged with a Top 5, including which albums they were taken from) and “Have you seen the latest Jennifer Aniston film?  Is it worth paying cinema prices?” (Of course he had; it wasn’t).

All in all, I’ve been on far worse dates but it is no coincidence that it was around this time I came up with my 3 dating rules:

  1. Must not be vegan (self-explanatory, surely?!)
  2. Must have good taste in music
  3. Must be 35+ (this was following a date with a hot 27 year old who didn’t know how to operate my corkscrew…  Not a euphemism; he actually failed to open a bottle of wine using my very normal, run-of-the-mill basic corkscrew).

I followed these rules to the letter until I took leave of several months later – yes, I possibly missed out on meeting some really great guys, but I could sleep easy knowing I’d never have to endure Mariah Fuc@$%£ Carey’s Greatest Fuc£&@!? hits album.

And that reminds me, I was going to tell you about when I left the dating websites… Match wasn’t the worst experience.  Not by far.  Oh no, that accolade goes to E-Harmony…

I joined E-Harmony because I was lured by their advertised ‘algorithms’.  I un-joined when I realised they’d taken £150 out of my account for the privilege (I’d put the value of an algorithms at no more than fifty quid, personally…)

Anyway, I called up to cancel (they advertised a cooling-down period alongside their algorithms) and a French girl answered.  French: the language of love.  I really want to believe they have a French call centre for this very reason. She was clearly very well-rehearsed in her spiel and came out with gems such as:

I give you a month for free, zees could be your destiny…


E-harmony has zee best results for zee not ending up alone…


I stood my ground. She asked for my email address.

Me: (Shite!)  Mumble mumble mumble (surely she just needed to check I was who I said I was)

French Girl: Sorry, I did not catch zat.

Me: Big big mumble mumble

FG: Zee beeg beeg?

Me: Bigbigbigbanana at…

FG: Ahhhh! Zee beeg beeg BEEG BANANA! Now I unnerstand!

No, I did NOT create that email address especially for my foray into online dating, it is merely my slightly-dodgy address like the ones that you all created before you had to apply for jobs and then succumbed to boring ones.  It is the one I use for things I don’t want to get spammed from. So there.


I don’t think French Girl believed me either when I tried to explain…

Ach well, onwards and upwards….



The One Where We Discuss Profile Pics

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the profile picture is the single most important element of any attempt at online dating.

Sorry to sound so shallow, but let’s call a spade a spade.  We all know what I’m saying is true.

So why do so many men get it so wrong on so many levels?

Firstly – and this is a real bugbear of mine – what is with the plethora of Xmas jumper pics?  I know what you’re going to say, but no, this is not a post-festivities phenomenon.  I joined months ago (September maybe? August? All those bad dates just blur into one…) and I was amazed at how many profile pictures featured cringy Christmas attire – truly horrid jumpers, tacky tinsel, straining Santa outfits, dogs wearing glittery antlers, men with Xmas decorations dangling from their ears, etc.

Lest us not forget that this was in the heat of summer!

Sorry guys, but failing to change your festive profile picture is laziness in the extreme.  I’m not asking for much; I don’t expect you to update your wardrobe with the seasons, but if you’re still sporting an Xmas jumper in Quarter 3, I’m going to assume you’re a little lazy in all aspects of life… And that does not bode at all well, my friend…


No. No. No.

The men of do seem to like to pose with animals.  I’m not entirely sure why.  I reckon it maybe stems from some sort of misguided belief that us women will associate them as being of highly-attractive hunter-gatherer descent and will be queuing up to drop our loincloths knickers.

Newsflash: We’re not.

I can kind of understand photos taken with the domesticated variety of animal (“I’m gentle and sweet and love my doggy” being the implied message), but many pictures feature animals of a far more exotic nature.   I’ve come across photos of men with snakes (“I have a big… snake”)

Birds of prey (“I can tame…all manner of birds, if you catch my drift…”)

Turtles (“I’m a budding David Attenborough and I know the ladies love him…”)

And cheetahs (at least I think it’s a cheetah… thoughts?)

I’m assuming all the featured men reckon they’re being highly original with their animal-themed pictures.

One word: Deluded.

I have also collected photos of men with penguins, elephants, camels and replica dinosaurs, but I think you probably get the general idea from the examples above…

For years, my friend Lindsay and I have exchanged photos of men posing with big fish (yep, you read that correctly).  We have a whole WhatsApp feed dedicated to the scintillating (jokes!) subject.

Literally hours of high-quality entertainment (hey, we were single and skint). You would be AMAZED at how common this type of profile picture is in the weird and wonderful world of online dating.

At first, we thought it was a Scottish phenomenon (Linds was Tindering in Edinburgh and screenshotting all the best examples for me).  Men posing proudly on the banks of lochs and rivers, brandishing giant specimens of aquatic life.

Presumably this was for the approval of womankind everywhere (why else would you put that as your profile picture?)  When I joined Match, I realised to my abject horror (and slight delight – so may WhatsApp opportunities!), that men in England were partial to a big-fish pose, too… Lindsay also discovered that when she went on holiday abroad, she didn’t escape the men with fishy fetishes.

I am man.  I hunt. I gather.

I provide for my woman…

So. Effing. WEIRD!

I recently got chatting to a fishing fetishist in real-life – I’ve never knowingly contacted a fish-man on Match.  Although thinking about it, who knows – it’s not like I actually remember messaging Pleatherman, is it?!

Anyway, the aforementioned real-life person (man, it’s a man; women generally have better hobbies) regularly embarks on this type of ‘sport’ fishing.  I tried not to judge too much; I recently ran 26.2 miles for ‘fun’, after all.  And I’m certainly not going to get onto the subject of what actually constitutes a sport and what blatantly doesn’t… (However, for the record, if you’re lying down in a special fishing bed, staying nice and dry thanks to your special big fishing umbrella, whilst drinking tea from a special fishing flask and eating chocolate biscuits, then it’s definitely not a sport, mate).

But anyway, I digress…

What Fisherboy told me was very interesting indeed (well, as interesting as any discussion about catching special fish in a big pond is ever going to be, obvs.  It’s all relative, and I feel I did remarkably well to remain awake for the duration of the discussion…*)

So dear readers, I listened, I didn’t doze off, and I found out the following for you…

When these fish are caught, they are swiftly weighed, a photo is quickly taken (this may explain the particularly poor quality of many of these profile pics…), and then the fish is released back into the water so it can be caught by another eager fisherman.

Ha!  There goes my hunter-gatherer theory…

But also, who takes the photos? (I’m led to believe fishing is a solitary pursuit…) Do they sit their phones on a big rock and set a timer? Do I actually care enough to find out? **

I saved the best for last, guys…

All these fish have names.

They. Have. Names.

The fish in a lake/loch/river(?! Surely not…) all have individual names.

5am runs on a Sunday morning; mustn’t judge, mustn’t judge…

Am judging massively here!

Names.  They give the fish names. 

Who gives them the names? Is it a ballot?  A competition? The first person to catch them? How do they tell if they’re male or female?  Also, how do they tell them apart, full stop?!  

Take a wee minute to think about this…  When one signs up for Tinder or Match, one tends to cast one’s net (see what I did there?) over a relatively small geographical area.  This means that these fishy profile pics are very likely to contain the same few fish.

Mind. Blown.

I’m not sure how to follow this revelation… I think the only way forward is to regale you with a selection of a few of my favourite most random profile pics. Here are some more truly ‘special’ shots for your perusal ***

You’re welcome.

And one more…

And one last one for good luck…

I absolutely love this profile picture, it raises so many questions!

  • Was this picture on his camera roll or did he get a store assistant to take it specially?
  • If it was on his camera roll, why was it on his camera roll?
  • What does he believe it says about him? “Look, I’m in a trainer shop, I have the necessary motivation to begin an exercise regime!” or did he just think it was a flattering photo of himself?

I feel the need to reiterate at this point that is a dating site that you have to pay for; these men have paid good money and then posted the above pictures in the hope of reeling in women (I really need to stop with the fishing references).

And then you have the guys that decide not to go for the at one with nature fish and animal pictures, or the truly random, and instead opt for a trusty selfie…

Selfies are okay(ish), selfies taken in bed are not. 

Selfies in bed with a girl cropped off the side are definitely not. 

Just putting it out there.

Selfies in a hospital bed are properly weird.

Seriously, what possesses these guys?

Others move from the bedroom and, instead, pose for a classic Bathroom Selfie. This is my favourite one.  Look at it!  Would you ever contact a guy who doesn’t put the toilet seat down before taking a photo?  Nope, me either.

I don’t care how many ‘shared interests’ we have, I also have bathroom-related standards.

A friend brought it to my attention recently that some men have a profile picture of a car.  Not them beside a car, or in a car (although these do feature, too), but just a car.  Are there women out there who date men based on what they drive?  If they exist, I imagine they’re perusing the likes of and not Match…

The profile pictures I hate the very most of all are gym shots.  At this point, I feel I need to be honest and admit that when I first joined Match, I included a picture of myself post-half-marathon, wearing a race number and medal, glass of fizz held aloft (i.e. Smug Exerciser Alert) But I took that picture down.  I’d like to say it was due to my aversion towards all things smug, but really it was because I know how easy it is to search for race numbers and find out a person’s full name then you can find him on Facebook, LinkedIn etc.

Game Over.

But in my defence, I do not think such pictures are as bad as flex-y, oily, veiny, gym selfies, or pictures of men lounging on the beach.  I mean seriously, who in their right mind would contact this guy:

Or this guy:




I also tend to veto men for the following photographic failures (what can I say, I’m shallow…):

  • They have multiple pictures and they are holding an alcoholic drink in ALL of them (hey, I like a drink as much as the next person, but at least have the gumption to pretend that you don’t have mild addiction issues). Top tip: If you hate getting your photo taken unless your inhibitions are lowered by the demon drink then crop your pint/wine glass/Prosecco bottle out of the picture! 
  • They have multiple IDENTICAL pictures (this is a lot more common that you may think).
  • They have pictures of themselves that were obviously taken YEARS apart (one full head of luxurious locks, one featuring massive bald spot).  Why the hell would I want to know what you looked like 15 years ago?!
  • They are topless (See above).
  • They are wearing fancy dress (I hate fancy dress with a passion.  A guy who chooses a fancy-dress-featuring photo as his profile pic is clearly into this type of organised ‘fun’).
  • They have used the type of Snapchat filter aimed at teenage girls (yeah, I sound sexist, but guys with halos of flowers… really?!) Actually, I lie.  I veto them if they use any Snapchat filter.
  • They have more than 10 pictures (vain weirdo alert).
  • They realise that dick pics don’t get approved, so they improvise… (see below):

Look at that sign behind him.


So yeah, there you have it, a wee summary of my own personal dos and don’t when it comes to profile pictures.


*Honestly, I could have recorded this shit and made my millions selling it as a cure for insomnia.  The things I do for the good of this blog!

** No, I certainly don’t.

***Pretty sure I need to give Amy credit for some of these – my screenshots and hers are jumbled together in a wonderful assortment of weirdness.

The One With All The Gifs

I love a good GIF and for the smutty among you – no, that’s not a euphemism.

In fact, I love them so much that the minute I’m presented with an opportunity to use them in the girls chat, I take it.

I don’t know whose stupid idea it was though it was probably Cath and/or Ammi and truth be told I can’t be arsed to go back through the group chat to find out who to blame, but they one of us suggested we should branch out into Tinder.

I mean – it’s not serious is it?  It’s just a big game of human snap?  What is the worst that could happen?

Enter C.

He was the worst that could happen.

That’s unfair because obviously at some point I probably drunkenly swiped right.  Actually that’s likely to be untrue too.  I’d had some notification telling me I’d been Super Liked and wanted to see what that entailed.  And I wanted my ego massaged.

It was quite easy to ‘chat’ to him.  He was funny, seemed well grounded, apologised on behalf of men the world over for unsolicited dick pics.  Winner I thought.

Now, having learnt from past experience I didn’t particularly want to spend the next eleventy billion years messaging back and forth only to be disappointed in real life again so when the suggestion was made to meet up for a drink a week later I decided to go for it.

As normal photographs of C were exchanged with Ammi and Cath along with a detailed description of what I was planning to wear, where we’d agreed to meet and at what time.  A check-I’m-still-alive call was scheduled for 21:00.

The day arrived and, surprisingly, I wasn’t as nervous as I thought and that was because of the glass of wine I had beforehand.

I’d got to the bar first and grabbed a table and ten minutes later in walked C.

I’m not sure if it’s the fact he was red faced, out of breath and panting like a whore in church or the fact he ordered a non alcoholic beer but I just knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere.

Perhaps he was nervous or just super awkward in real life but within minutes of him sitting down it was very obvious that he had no idea how to talk to me in person…. in fact I reckon if he could have sat at another table and spent all night sending me GIFs he (and I) would have had a far better time.

I knew from our conversations before that he was into competing in triathlons so tried to steer conversation toward that; like how he got into in the first place, training, where he competes.  I tried to keep my questions as open as possible and STILL he found ways to give me one word answers.

I was convinced the date was nearing an end after about 40 minutes when C suggested we MOVE tables.  I didn’t want to.  I liked being sat at a round table where he sat semi-opposite me.  It was nice.  But he’d spied a table that had become free where the chairs had been replaced with a sofa style seat which meant we had to sit next to each other.


Oh god.

I didn’t want to.  I didn’t want to be so close that our arms could touch or our knees.  I was about to protest when he lifted his drink and mine and got up and moved.

As if the non alcoholic beer hadn’t already killed things my noticing he had smaller thighs than me as he ran across the bar certainly put the final nail in the coffin.


The new seating arrangements didn’t make things any easier.  Turns out he was hard work on any type of seat and he’d lost my focus and attention.

In fact, I was more interested to see who was taking part in the speed dating event going on in the upstairs part of the bar and spent most some of the time while he was rambling on about the different types of trainers he needs for running and how his triathlon bike has hard shoes attached to the pedal which makes the transition from water to bike easier dreaming of ways I could sneak upstairs and get involved.  Plus ‘Mark’ had caught my attention while the daters were on a break and was smiling broadly at me while getting a drink at the bar.

Overall the date was tough going. Really tough going.  And even more so because not only was there zero spark but we clearly had nothing in common.

If I’m a tequila, he’s natural spring water.

After an hour and a half of excruciatingly painful ‘conversation’ I made my excuses and left.  C insisted on walking me to the car park and as much I tried to to say no, he was adamant he should.

I was paying for my ticket when I realised he was stood unnaturally close to me and instinctively I recoiled in dread that he might try and put an arm round me. Or kiss me.

In an effort to end the silence C thanked me for a lovely (!) evening and as I was getting ready to turn around and leave he leaned in close, extended an arm toward me in a hug type motion and in my blind panic I grabbed his hand and shook it.

I shook his hand.

For real.

Like you do when you end an interview.

For. Fuck. Sake.

I don’t know who was more shocked to be honest me or him though the look on his face showed quite clearly it wasn’t what he was expecting and whilst I was wildly shaking his hand I just blurted out “it was nice to meet you”.

And then I left!

I called Cath on the way home and in between her gasps of horror and belly laughing she told me to just ‘chalk it up to experience’ and not to worry about it.

C messaged me the next day saying he had a lovely time but sensed there was no spark on my part.  I told him he was right.

Moving forward if someone communicates with me entirely in GIF then there will be no meeting in person at all!

Me on the other hand, I will continue to use them as if they were cash.

You’re welcome, A x

The One Who Was 42 Going On 14

Dear Match Hero,


It’s been over a week since our fated date, and the time has come to let you in on a few home truths.  I’ve not written sooner because I was so peed off with myself.


But better late than never.


Firstly, let’s talk about that text you sent me just before we met (when I was literally on my way to meet you): the text that stated, apropos of nothing, that you’d ‘washed your man-bits’.  That was massively inappropriate and not all that far removed from unsolicited photos.  I don’t know why I didn’t call the date off.  I suspect it’s because I’d already left the house, you were attractive in your photos, and correctly differentiated between ‘their’ and ‘there’ in your previous, non-inappropriate, messages.  What can I say: I’m shallow.


I’m shallow, but you are forty two years old…


In my defence (I’m not totally pathetic), I did pull you up on your message as soon as I sat down.  You laughed.  But I wasn’t joking.  Who feels the need to reflect on the cleanliness of their man-bits when meeting someone for a first date?!  I was going to point out that it was in the middle of the afternoon, and in a café, but it’s not relevant.


You might remember we made small talk, although I’m guessing you probably won’t – you were remarkably keen to steer the topic of conversation.  You wanted to know how many Match men I’d been on dates with and whether or not we’d had sex.  You were like a dog with a bone.  When I told you as much, you said loudly, ‘a dog with a bon-er.’ I ignored you: your response was to say it again, but louder.


Forty. Two. Years. Old.


I tried.  I really, really did. I mentioned I’d been to a gig with a male friend; you asked if I’d screwed him.  I told you about my work; you asked if I ever had to ‘do special favours’ for customers. You asked how long I’d been single and stated I must be ‘gagging on it’.  You said it all with a smile and a laugh like it was all a big joke and I was the one with the rubbish sense of humour.  I alternated between ignoring you and suggesting that this sort of chat on a first date might explain why you’d not had a second date in the past 4 years (not, as you suggested, because the women ‘weren’t your type’).  You looked at me like I was being deeply offensive.  Quite frankly, I was beyond caring.


I want you to know I was ashamed (mostly of myself). We were one of those hideous first dates that I love to witness in a schadenfreude-y ‘oh my GOD, I’m so glad that’s not me’ sort of way.  The more I tried to change the subject, the more you pried. Loudly.  I was also far too hot.  I think this was a combination of mortification and the fact that there was no way I was removing my scarf to reveal even a hint of cleavage.  That is how uncomfortable you made me feel.


It was quite possibly the longest half hour of my life.


No topic of conversation was safe. You may recall that the straw that broke the camel’s back was when I mentioned the fact I run and you felt the need to state that I ‘must have good stamina’.  I ignored your innuendo-laden leer and agreed that yes, one needs stamina to run for hours at a time.  ‘No, no, stamina’, you repeated.  Yes, I agreed, stamina to run for a long time.  You were nothing if not tenacious.  You repeated the word not once more, but twice.  With an accompanying action.


Pelvic thrusts are not appropriate in public places.


Sorry, but they’re just not.


(With the possible exception of a pilates class).


And you are forty two years old.


It was at this point I came to my senses, looked at my watch, and made my excuses (yes, still annoyed with myself that I felt the need to make excuses).  You stood up and followed me (for the record, you’re definitely not five foot ten), and tried to say you’d see me again.


I think we both knew you were lying.


What I really want to say is thank you – you made me so angry with myself that I know for sure I will never let a date speak to me like that again.  Not ever.  I joked about it with my friends afterwards, but it shook me.  I certainly won’t meet someone who sends messages relating to the cleanliness of their genitalia.  What was going through your head when you sent it?! Did you think I wouldn’t be able to resist a quick inspection in the disabled loo of Starbucks? Have you since told your mates that that’s exactly what happened?


Forty fucking two.


The other thing I want to remind you of is the fact you have a teenage daughter.  You clearly think you speak to women in an acceptable manner.  I personally think you might want to work on that, for her sake if nothing else.


Yours Faithfully,




The One Who Taught Me a Lesson

The moral of this story is that you should always bite the bullet and tell it like it is.

I’d been messaging a Match Hero for a few weeks on and off, and had decided I wasn’t going to meet up with him. There were several reasons for this; the main one being that he stated that all evenings and weekends were ‘difficult’ for him. He apparently worked away from home a lot, had his kids some of the time, and could only ever do lunchtimes. Call me cynical/suspicious/paranoid, but a lot of what he said in his messages was inconsistent, and something just didn’t quite add up.  Maybe I’m doing him a disservice/being unneccesarily unkind and he actually cares for his elderly mother every evening, and perhaps he secretly rescues baby cats from trees and helpless orphans from burning buildings of a weekend. It’s possible.

But hey ho, sometimes if we get a bad feeling about something/someone we have to run with it. It’s called self-preservation.

Oh and I nearly forgot! This gentleman also listed his hair colour as light brown when he was very clearly a ginger. Now I am in no way gingerist – but embrace it, don’t deny it, for fecksake! And if you’re intent on lying, maybe consider wearing a hat in your profile pics…

I’m not usually backwards at coming forward, but for some reason, when this guy asked me to meet up, I didn’t just say no. Instead, we had a Match conversation that went something like this:

Match Hero: As evenings are a bit tricky for me, I was thinking it would be a brilliant idea for us to meet for lunch. Do they give you time off for good behaviour at work? Fancy going for a sandwich? I would love an excuse for a lunchtime jolly to come and meet you.

Me (not really loving the use of the phrase ‘lunchtime jolly’ and what that may allude to) : I do get a lunchbreak, yes, but I work on a business park and there’s nowhere nearby for lunch. Sorry!

Should have just said no…

MH: I could come and pick you up and we could drive somewhere.

Me: I wouldn’t feel comfortable getting into a car with someone I didn’t know… (Understatement of the year!)

Should have just said no…

Me (unable for some reason to leave it at that): Anyway, I go running most lunchtimes so I’m pretty busy.

Should have just said NO!!!

MH: We can meet for a lunch run then…Could do with freeing up my legs and a chat!


I am a veritable idiot.

And that is why you should always tell the truth! I wasn’t lying about running at lunchtimes (I was merely exaggerating which is totally different to and not at all like inventing a new hair colour for yourself, btw…). However, I should have just been honest and said:

‘Sorry, no, not going to meet you’.

For about 3 seconds I actually contemplated meeting this guy and going for a few laps round the park.  At least office etiquette dictates it would be an hour, max., and it would be far preferable to being in a car with a total stranger.  Having said that, I would clearly spend that entire time struggling to keep up with my Match Hero. My hair would be stuck to me, I’d be huffing and puffing and claiming I was ‘fine’ whenever he expressed concern (or, more likely, I’d be attempting to say I was fine but not managing to splutter anything remotely comprehensible).

Thankfully, common sense prevailed, and I decided that as much as I really wanted to have a discussion argument about embracing one’s hair colour, a running date would be a Very Bad Idea Indeed.

In my experience, the males of the species get weirdly competitive whenever exercise is involved. I’ve lost count of the number of messages I’ve had from men who, having presumably seen ‘running’ in my list of  interests, have claimed ridiculous levels of sporting prowess. Alleged achievements such as ‘I took up running this year and ran the London marathon in 2 hours 13 mins and 34 seconds’ are not uncommon… Come on guys, if you’re gonna lie, at least do your research and lie convincingly (also, I have it on good authority that a Real Runner would never include the seconds…!) I’ve also received messages relating to how much they can bench press (truth: I don’t actually know – or care – what that means).

Long story short, I think it rather unlikely that a running date is going to resist the urge to show off his running ability and slow down to my more moderate pace… (ergo, my own competitive  stubborn streak would kick in and I’d just about kill myself trying to keep up).

I’m getting tired just thinking about it.

I actually went on a post-run date last week (I was post-run, he was forewarned), but post-run is completely a bit different – think hoody over the top of the sweaty lycra, dark pub, drink in front of you, no actual running involved…

Am I selling it to you?!

Runner’s World published an article a while back entitled the Dos and Don’ts of Running Dates (I know this because I looked it up when my friend expressed disbelief that I would rock up to the date clad in lycra – not one who likes being wrong, I wanted to prove it was totally normal…)

I take it back! Going on a date dressed in something that makes you look like an overstuffed sausage is not the way forward. As previously stated, I took refuge in a hoody and a dark corner, but that’s not really feasible mid-run.

As an aside, we never did arrange that second date…

The Runner’s World article I mentioned is full of helpful tips: DO wear deodorant (No! Really?!); DON’T insist on making eye contact when running (how is this even possible?!); DO dress comfortably, but don’t run shirtless or in just a sports bra (I have no words); DON’T spit or blow snot (seriously, I’m not making this up!)

To summarise, I didn’t go on my running date and the Match Hero wasn’t best impressed (don’t imagine I’ll be getting Match Heroine endorsement from this one). He bombarded me with a flurry of messages of the ‘not really taking no for an answer’ variety.

Aaaaand Blocked.

I read back through our entire conversation and alarm bells rang…Wee gems that jumped out included him stating we should really meet up as I’m apparently ‘just his type’ and he was ‘hoping you’d give me a post-run massage’  (how jolly), and suggesting we could  ‘fit each other round our lifestyles’ (didn’t do anything to assuage my suspicions that something was a little amiss).

But I did learn that it pays to be straight to the point and to trust your instincts, and on future dates I’ll definitely make sure I don’t go blowing any snot in my companion’s direction…

Until next time…






The One With The Fiancee Part 2

I’m starting to think Doctor Foster might in some way be my spirit animal.

There’s been quite a bit of debate among my girlfriends and I about whether her behaviour in Season 2 was justified or if she was legitimately just fucking nuts.

I’m not saying she was right to do some of the things she did, but I can understand why she did them.

Now, bear with me.

The not used as often as it should be rational part of me says that when Dick Face Simon came back to town she should have just ignored him.  Been the bigger person and left him be.

But on the flip side I can see 100% how his return activated her Psycho Switch.

At the end of Season 1 she’d played him like a fiddle and he ended up doing a bunk to London with his Piece On The Side.  Boom!! She’s won we all thought!

Between you and me, I wasn’t convinced she ever really had closure.  Sure, to the outside world she looked like she’d handled it well – but did she?  I always thought she buried a lot of what she actually felt so his reappearance made all the feelings she’d ignored erupt like a fucking volcano!

Which brings me to now.

Until I wrote the post about the dickhead with The Fiancee I hadn’t thought about him in a long time.  I spent a few days after The Telephone Call From Hell hoping she’d thrown his shit out and dumped his sorry ass and decided to chalk the whole situation up to a shitty fucking experience.

And then last night happened. has this wonderful way of notifying you every time someone looks at your profile.  I haven’t been online in a few days but figured I’d give it a quick check.


Guess who was there in my list of ‘people who have viewed you’.



There he was in all his lying, slimy, sack of shit glory.

Don’t click his profile and see what it says he’ll know you’ve done it. 

All rationale went out of the window and I clicked his picture more aggressively than I meant to.  Seeing his face again flipped my Psycho Switch from off to on.

He hadn’t changed anything.  Same photos as before.  Same bullshit blurb as before.  Same everything as before.  Same, same, same.

Take a million screenshots just in case you need them down the line as further proof he’s a fucking asshole.

I genuinely didn’t care that he’d get the same notification I had.  That I’d looked at his profile.  Fuck it, maybe I wanted him to know that I knew he was back online.

I opened WhatsApp and messaged our group chat with what had happened.  Ammi was quite insistent that I shouldn’t message him but did ask if I’d kept L’s number – she wondered if it would be worth telling her he’s back online in case she’d been a fucking idiot and taken him back she hadn’t left – but I deleted the numbers I had a few weeks after everything happened.

The general consensus was that I shouldn’t make any contact in anger even though he had behaved like a complete and utter fucking asshole first time round.  Both suggested I sleep on it and see how I feel.

Well, I’ve slept on it.

And I’m still fucking fuming.

How dare he look at my profile.  I haven’t changed that much since the last time we saw each other so he had no need of poking about – unless his intention was to alert me to his presence in which case well fucking done sunshine.  I see you.

Not only do I see you, but I’ve got some things to say.

You are a selfish, spineless, lying, manipulative fucking waste of space.

Did what you were doing and the impact it would have on not one, not two but five people make you at any point think ‘You know what, this is probably going to make me look a cunt, so I shouldn’t do it?!’  No it fucking didn’t. It can’t have done.

You have a seven year old daughter.  You are the single most important male role model in her life and you should be the example of what she looks for in someone when she’s old enough.  Not fucking romping your way round the country by being a lying fucking scumbag.  Someone who gains a persons trust only to destroy it when you’re done or bored or found out.

Your fiancee had a nine year old daughter for fuck sake.  Not only did you cheat on L but you took the trust that little girl placed in you and you pissed it up the wall along with everything else.

And then there was me.

Don’t get me wrong, in hindsight I’m not naive enough to think I was the first and we all know I wont be the last – but let me ask you – have you ever had to tell another person that their someone, the person they loved more than anything was cheating on them?  Have you ever heard the sound of someones heart breaking on the phone?  Have you?

I have.

When she called me that Sunday I heard her entire world crumble.  I heard her heart break.  I heard the clogs in her brain turning while she tried to process what she’d been told and I heard her try and work out what she should do, what she’d have to tell her daughter; a girl who’d been in your life for seven fucking years you selfish prick.

I apologised over and over and over again.  I justified my behaviour.  I promised her I wasn’t some whore who’d knowingly got involved with a man who wasn’t available.

I felt dirty.

I felt violated.

I felt disgusting.

You made me feel those things.  You were responsible for the resulting clusterfuck after that call.


Not L.  Not me.

And all because you couldn’t keep your dick in your pants.

If you’re back online because you are genuinely in a position where you can pursue someone then fine.  I suspect you aren’t though given you’ve hidden your photos now knowing I’ve seen you.

What are you hiding?  Or are you worried I might contact you and call you out on your bullshit?

Well don’t worry, I wont.

You’re not worthy of breathing the same air as me let alone be given any more space in my brain.

I will never, ever have anything to do with you again.  I will never write or speak of you again.

You no longer exist in my world.

Now, to quote Rachel from friends ‘that my friend is what they call closure’

You’re welcome, A x


The One With The (Semi) Naked Selfie

OK, lets get something straight; if you want take a picture of yourself stark bollock naked (or even semi naked for that matter) for your own pleasure or the viewing pleasure of you and a partner or because you need the girls to verify something that looks a bit unsightly on your skin and are sending it to them via the privacy of your WhatsApp group chat then please…. knock yourself out.

Seriously.  Do it.  Go on and live your best life.

But if you want to take *that* kind of photo with the sole intention of sending it to me someone that you have never met because you think it’s a giggle or because ‘you just have to’ then there is something very fucking wrong with you and you should know that shit like that boils my piss.


I got chatting to B weeks ago.

Nothing consistent at first, just the odd bit of chat here and there.  If I’m honest I wasn’t entirely convinced that he floated my boat and I wondered if we actually had that much in common but he given that he didn’t offer to ‘sort me right out’ and had made me laugh when we did chat I figured I’d see what would happen.

After a while came the inevitable exchange in numbers.

And there was my fucking mistake.

The first message came through and just said ‘Nice’ and had a winky face emoji at the end.

The second message read ‘Back home now’.  It too was accompanied by a winky face emoji.

Both messages came through at gone 10:30pm.

Now, I’m not a night owl – I never have been.  I’m rubbish at staying up late and for those who don’t believe me you can ask The Hot Geek.  The only time you’ll find me up after that time is if I’m pissed on Prosecco with the girls in which case I’ve been known to still be awake at gone midnight.

Naturally, I hadn’t replied…. but for fear of making B feel like I was ignoring him I sent a quick text that just read ‘Morning! x’ and this was the response I got:


Fuck. Sake.

No, I didn’t approve and his comment about it ‘only being a giggle’ really fucked me off because I wasn’t smiling.


After a while I got a couple of messages back:


Now, what I wanted to reply with was ‘it left me the impression that you were an oversexed dickhead’.

But, in a surprisingly out of character move, I thought I’d actually send him something that might make him think in future:

The “Sorry… Had to be done” implies that you couldn’t help yourself but to send the photo and it wasn’t till I challenged you on it that you jokingly acknowledged I didn’t approve and when it became very a clear I wasn’t interested in it only then did you apologise.

The apology would have been fine if you hadn’t followed it up with a comment about being a giggle which came across as you weren’t sorry at all. You were having a laugh with no care as to the impact it would have on me.

The thing is, it starts off with photos like that and 90% of the time it moves into pictures that are more revealing and when you don’t know a person it’s just so uncalled for.

If you met me in a bar… your first thought wouldn’t be to remove your top and show me your body? I don’t get why it’s OK to do it to someone you’ve been talking to online?

The simple answer is it’s not.

I’m not a prude and like I said at the beginning of this post – if this type of thing floats your boat or, as my mate Ammi says, ‘butters your crumpet’ you crack on but before you add it to a message or an email and send it to a total fucking stranger ask yourself – if you met the person you were sending it to in a bar or a cafe or anywhere for that matter – would your first action be to whack off your top and stand loud and proud in front of them waiting for some sort of approval.

I suspect the answer would be no.

So don’t be a dick.

You’re welcome, A x

#Pleatherman: An Update

After enduring a couple of days punctuated by Placebo’s Pure Morning going round and around in my head (A friend in need’s a friend indeed… A friend with weed is better… A friend with breasts and all the rest… A FRIEND WHO’S DRESSED IN PLEATHER), I gave in to peer pressure/blatant bullying/sheer intrigue/the boredom of a burgeoning hangover and decided the time had come to message Pleatherman with one of Amy’s suggested conversational starters.

I opened the Match app, found his profile, clicked on the wee envelope icon…



AT 23:48.


The Tory Teacher of date #1 would have uttered a polite ‘oh sugar’ at this point. He said ‘oh sugar’ when he was told the roast beef had run out, he said it again – a little more forcefully –  when the waitress announced there was a delay on food (in retrospect, he was clearly enjoying my company just as much as I was his), and once more when he dropped his napkin. I didn’t find his restraint remotely attractive.

I was certainly not saying ‘oh sugar’ on realising I had sent a drunken one-word text to Pleatherman at ten to midnight the previous evening…


It was succinct, it was direct, it was straight to the point. I’ll give myself that. There was no point pretending that the friend who insisted on that second bottle of Sauvignon was also guilty of commandeering my phone and sending it on my behalf. ‘Pint?’ is exactly the sort of text I tend to send when under the influence of several alcoholic beverages.


Okay okay, don’t panic, I told myself. He hasn’t read it. He’s probably never on here. Caring for one’s special pleather suit must be pretty time consuming (not to mention the hours involved actually getting in and out of the thing); it probably doesn’t leave him with a lot of spare seconds to check his messages. It’ll all be fine; by the time he reads it I’ll have forgotten all about him. And I didn’t even put any kisses or mention the baby oil v’s lube debate (for shining the pleather; get your mind out of the gutter). And I didn’t enquire as to whether he lives with his mother and if she took the resplendent-in-shiny-pleather photo for him… Or if, in actual fact, Mum’s been dead for a while now, but he hasn’t reported it to the relevant authorities… Or whether she’s dead and he hasn’t reported it, but he does take the time to go in and tenderly brush her hair each morning. Or any of the other hot topics we’ve been collectively wondering about.


Then, a couple of hours later (at around about the time my Hangover Proper was kicking in), this happens:

You know that split second when something really, really bad happens, like you accidentally send an incriminating text to the wrong person, or Cc the wrong colleague in on an email, or think you’ve sent a message to the wrong group chat, or the door slams shut behind you and you realise you’re not in the en suite but are, in fact, locked out in the corridor wearing a pair of flesh coloured knickers AND NOTHING ELSE (whole other story), and you get that sense of time standing still accompanied by a shot of adrenaline that makes you feel instantly shaky and sick? That is how I felt at this moment in time.




“I can think of worse ways to go” said Amy (most unhelpfully, I thought).

The girls encouraged me to read it and I wondered if perhaps I’ve read too many low-brow thrillers in my time… So I took a deep breath, thought about the blog, and clicked…

No thanks. Good luck

No thanks?!

The sheer cheek of him.

Good luck? GOOD LUCK?!

At least I drunkenly punctuated my one-word sentence. This shiny wee shite didn’t even feel I was deserving of a full stop.

How very dare he turn me down!


And then I started to feel a teeny tiny bit relieved… I’d tried to contact him (let’s not dwell on the fact that I don’t really remember doing so…) so nobody can accuse me of failing to embrace the spirit of the blog, but I wasn’t going to have to dig out those dusty stilettos after all! And if he’d any desire to strangle me, he would have probably agreed to that pint…


Onwards and upwards…


The One Who Was Slightly Creepy 

Ok, for starters, you’re not ‘slightly older’, now are you? You’re a good few years older than the upper age limit I said I was looking for. Hence you are significantly older than me.


I just wanted to clear that up.


And no, I’m not going to overlook it. Sorry. 


I don’t doubt that you saw me on here and read my profile, but I do refute the fact that you ‘just had to message me’. You didn’t have to message me, it was not even one little bit necessary. Believe me when I say I would be feeling a lot more comfortable right about now had you chosen not to…


I also, perhaps, wouldn’t be glaring suspiciously at every ageing man I pass on Reading’s pavements.


You’ve seen me before? You hope that doesn’t sound creepy? Okay, let’s break this down… Either this is your standard (rubbish) chat-up message and you tell all the ladies that you’ve seen them around in whichever town they happen to live (under the deluded belief that this approach could actually work), or you actually have seen me in Reading. More than once, as apparently you have always appreciated my beauty. Wonderful.


Loving the fact you’ve oh-so-causally stuck your ‘I hope this doesn’t sound creepy’ in brackets. If you have to even raise the idea that something may possibly sound creepy then I think it’s a fair assumption that yes, it definitely does sound creepy and that you should have kept that creepy, weird information inside your old, creepy head and not let it seep out into a super creepy message to me. #toptip


You allegedly see many things in my profile that could be in yours. Things that could be in there, but interestingly, aren’t. Hmm. I’m not really sure how similar our profiles are, to be honest… I took the liberty of screen-shotting the bit where you’ve filled in your interests… No mention of shared hobbies there, that I can see…


You have a dry sense of humour, you say? Maybe this slightly stalkerish angle is an example of that… But you are respectful (I wasn’t aware that having a dry sense of humour and being respectful were mutually exclusive…) and generally a nice guy.


There you have it. A generally nice, much older guy, who happens to be just a little bit fucking creepy.






The One Who Dressed In Pleather

Yesterday I made an epic error.

A monumental mistake.

I decided to Match like a man (or how I imagine men like to Match).

I have long suspected that when using Tinder, many men swipe right on every single profile, thus increasing their odds of success.  I reckon this probably extends to (every day on Match, you are given the option to yay or nay through a selection of a hundred eligibles).  So I made the bold decision to say yes to all of them.  I messaged Amy to inform her of my intentions, and embarked on some swipy-swiping.

Seconds later, I get a flurry of messages…

If you do that – Match ADDS THEM TO YOUR FAVOURITES.

I knew it was serious, she’d used CAPITAL LETTERS.

Muttering profanities, I braced myself to assess the damage…

Just for clarification, if you ‘favourite’ someone on Match, they get a notification and there’s no way of removing them from your list of faves (like a drunken text message but WORSE). I had previously wondered where the list of favourites was generated from… And now I knew.

Luckily, Amy had halted my action before I managed to get myself into too much trouble.  I took a deep breath and scrolled through my recently extended favourites list.  Most were pretty dull.

And then there was LeatherLover17.

LeatherLover17 was pretty hot.  He was 34 and lived in Reading.  So far, so good.  He had 4 profile pictures which were variations of the same shot (what is it with these multiple identical photos FFS?!)  He had nice thighs.

Nice thighs encased in a nice, tight super-shiny faux-leather all-in-one suit…

He even fuzzed out his face in one of them which meant I didn’t have to do it myself before posting here (I initially thought it was a special mask, but after zooming in, we realised this wasn’t the case).

He sounded interesting…

Amy reckoned I should meet him.  Amy offered to sit in the corner and observe. Amy said I should think of the readers.  Hell, Amy even offered to pay for dinner and drinks and lend me her favourite leather gloves (red, with a fleck of leopard print) and told me to think of the beautiful leather babies…

Clearly I refused.

She decided I should message him and say:

I read your profile. Doesn’t being dressed head to toe in leather not make you melt like stilettos and leather gloves?


Hey, sorry if this is a bit forward, but I got a little notification that you’d checked out my profile … I had a read of yours and can’t believe you’ve had to hide a part of you in past relationships.  That makes me sad. Noone should hide who they are.  That was all really.  Hope you’re well. X


No. No. NO.

Leatherlover17 provided hours of entertainment.

We discussed at length the special suit.  We reckon it has a full length under-zip. But even then, how does he get into it? Lashings of talc? Sheer determination? Lots of helpers? We also weren’t so sure how he managed to get it so shiny (especially with the mattifying effects of talc…) Baby oil was the odds-on favourite, but it looks like we’ll never know now.  

We pontificated over whether he would he arrive on a date with it under his day-to-day suit…  Probably not, we decided – simply not practical.  Just how squeaky would it be?  Where does one go to get a full-length fake leather onesie anyway, y’know, if (hypothetically speaking) one wanted to make a special effort for the date…?  (turns out there are a surprising number of specialist retailers – the sort you don’t really want to be looking at on your work laptop…) How does he pee (obvs this involved some more zooming action)? Etc.


How are we going to sleep?!

As curious as I am, I still couldn’t bring myself to message him despite Amy’s suggestion that we ‘let the internet decide’ (I don’t want to be responsible for my mum having a heart attack). So here we are, none the wiser.

Sorry about that.