A Grandpa Coat And Three Moves

Dating in London—the city where the pints are warm, the men are cold, and the only thing more unpredictable than the weather is your Hinge inbox.

So there I was, scrolling through the usual suspects: gym bros with protein shakes in hand, tech lads holding fish on boats (why is this a thing?), and a sea of men who “don’t take themselves too seriously” (but absolutely do). Then—bam!—there he was. Blonde hair, blue eyes, the kind of cuteness that makes you think, huh, maybe Cupid's still got it. Small catch—he was ten years younger. But who’s counting? (Besides my ovaries.)

Naturally, I pressed "like" faster than you can say “age is just a number” and within days we’d arranged to meet in central London. Picture this: it’s winter, the air is brisk and he turns up… wearing a locked checkered wool coat. The kind your granddad might wear to the post office. Not ideal.

I thought, Okay, maybe he’s just quirky. Eccentric. Possibly sponsored by Oxfam. But when we sat down at the pub, coat off, cheeks slightly flushed from the cold—I started to see the appeal again. Cute. Definitely cute. Big forehead, though. Like, “could project a movie on it” big. But cute.

We chatted, we strolled, I felt… meh. Bit beige. Sort of like tea without milk—technically still tea, but not one you’d write home about. I was off abroad for three weeks soon and honestly wasn’t feeling particularly invested.

But he was keen. So keen. Puppy-dog energy. He wanted to squeeze in another date before I left, and I thought, why not? Enter: mini golf. A slightly tragic but adorable choice. I was still stuck between “aww, cheeky chappy” and “hmm, is this what life with a crossword-loving pensioner looks like?”

Then, just as I was mentally drafting a polite “it’s not you, it’s your knitwear” message, he grabbed my hand. Flutter. At the station, he kissed me. Properly kissed me. And suddenly I was leaning a bit more into the “I like this guy” camp.

Cut to: me on a beach abroad, missing him more than I’d expected. We chatted every other day. Bad idea for an anxious attacher like me, who thrives on constant reassurance like a plant with trust issues. I’d told him it was my birthday while I was away, dropped hints like breadcrumbs. The day came. The day went. No message. Not even a casual “HBD” like we’re ex-colleagues on Facebook. Ouch.

Still, I was excited when I got back. He planned our third date—a bar, then dancing. I went full glam. We drank, we danced, we kissed like teenagers at a house party, hands everywhere, zero chill. Electric. We Ubered back to mine (not my first backseat ballet, let’s be real). He was ready. Like, primed. I wasn’t quite there yet but went along. It was decent. A bit… methodical. Like he’d practised three moves in front of a mirror and decided, yes, this is my signature routine. I couldn’t help but blurt out, mid-session, “you need to mix it up a bit.” (Note to self: maybe wait until after the deed next time.)

Despite the forehead, the rigid repertoire, and the missed birthday, I liked him. We saw each other for a few months, though work whisked me away often. I made the effort—Croydon, even! His parents’ place for a bike ride! (No parents home, thank God. I draw the line at family dinners in early-stage flings.)

He’d started so strong—daily chats, thoughtful dates, pure rom-com potential. But as time went on, the texts slowed. The plans dried up. My anxious inner voice went full David Attenborough: And here, we observe the London male quietly detaching while still enjoying the fruits of casual companionship.

Our final date was daytime drinks and dinner. He came back to mine. Things got physical, fast. He finished quickly, then crashed on my couch like he’d just run a marathon. I was pinned in place like a hostage. Eventually, I tried to move. He stirred, got up, put on his clothes. I asked, nervously, “Would you ever stay the night?”

He looked at me. A look I can only describe as “absolutely not, babe.” And then he left.

Neither of us texted again. Ghosting, but with a grandpa coat and three moves.

It took me a while to bounce back from that one. But bounce I did—because that’s what we do? We laugh, we cry, we romanticise red flags and call it experience.

So here’s to big foreheads, emotional unavailability, and the absolute thrill of those first few flutters. On to the next story.

Stay tuned, my love-hungry Londoners. The saga continues... 💔🍷