All great romances start on Tinder these days.
All great romances start on Tinder these days, or so I’m told. Juliet, Juliet wherefore art thou Juliet? Oh yes there you are, someone’s free pouring beer into your mouth with a keg. I get on Tinder because it’s infinitely less terrifying than having to talk to girls face to face, blushing and babbling like a teenage boy. I choose photos of me in an Italian vineyard, or thumbs up at the top of a mountain because – look! I’m cool! I go on holiday!
Scrolling through the lacklustre profiles of posers and hipsters, I wonder glumly if all the nice, pretty girls have already been snapped up: selfie; selfie; boob shot; selfie; boob shot; selfie; man; threesome. Everyone loves “gin” and “avocado” and “so happy living my life!! Good vibes only!!” as if anyone goes on a dating website is hoping to meet a miserable old git. Then I wonder if I’m the miserable old git.
I get the odd match and send perky messages: “Hey! That beach shot is incredible, where was it taken?” or “Love the stripey top and red lipstick combo, you’ve got Parisian chic nailed!” Silence. It’s like walking up to 100 strangers in the street and having every single one look you up and down and say “No.” “No.” “No.” “Hell no.”
I slug white wine with my friends and moan about where all the beautiful gay girls are.
“I live in one of the most crowded, polluted cities in the world. I spend two hours of every day on the tube nestled in someone’s armpit, fantasising about living in a Mongolian yurt with a donkey. The whole point of living in this blistering hell hole of seven million people is that surely, one day, someone will agree to snog you.”
And out of the blue, someone does.
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