Welcome to the unfiltered chronicles of a 40-something Londoner whose love life is—how shall we put this—less “rom-com” and more “tragic farce with excellent wine.” Inspired (or traumatised?) by the book, Confessions of a 40-something F*ck-Up, I realised: that’s me. Only worse. No divorce, no kids, no happy ending on the horizon. Just a nice flat in London, a decent job, and a dating history that could be weaponised as birth control.

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Let’s rewind. My first “relationship” (using that term in the loosest possible sense) was at 25, with a 20-year-old American in the US who said “I love you” just to get me into bed. It worked. I was a virgin, by the way—don’t ask. Something about staying pure for marriage in solidarity with my extremely religious best friend. A solid plan, clearly. Four weeks later, I moved to London with a broken heart, and he moved on like I’d never existed.

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Then came the 23-year-old rich British boy with all the emotional range of a cucumber sandwich. I was anxious, he was avoidant—classic. Eighteen months of “does he love me or is he about to ghost me?” ended as expected: he’s now married with two (probably) beautiful children in a sprawling suburban mansion. And me? I have a blog. Win. Win.

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Fast-forward to my last relationship six years ago—he tried to hack a wart off his own knee with a knife (sexy), told me the used condoms in his bin were ours (I hadn’t seen him in two weeks), and closed our love story with: “I was never really that into you.” Cheers, mate.

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Needless to say, dating has been a consistent car crash with the occasional funny anecdote. Hundreds of dates later, I’ve become something of an unwilling expert. I’ve laughed, cried, deleted dating apps, re-downloaded them at 2am, and even braved Clapham on a Saturday night—twice. Sometimes a tipsy snog with a 30-something man-child in a North Face puffer is all a girl needs to feel alive again.

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This blog is for the fellow f*ck-ups. The single women in their 30s and 40s who are tired of pretending their lives are Pinterest-perfect. The ones who’ve had enough of “you’ll find him when you stop looking” advice and just want someone to say, yep, same here. You’re not alone. You’re not broken. And if you are, well, at least we can laugh about it.

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So, pour a glass, settle in, and join me as I unpack the tragic-comedy that is modern dating—one awkward encounter at a time.

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It’s not a love story. It’s just my story. And it’s a bloody good read.