Frenchie Fanatic

You know when you swipe right on someone and think, Phwoar, this could actually be something? Well, buckle in, because this is the tale of just that… sort of.

So, I matched with this guy on Hinge—tall, dark, undeniably handsome. The kind of profile that makes you pause mid-scroll and involuntarily raise an eyebrow. And let me tell you, he was even better in person. I’m talking strong jawline, floppy dark hair, that mischievous glint in his eye that says I may or may not have ghosted someone before, but you’ll forgive me, won’t you?

We met at a pub, because where else do you kick off the potential love story of the decade? It started a bit odd, though. Not in a he's a serial killer kind of way, more in a this man might be in a committed relationship—with his dog kind of way.

Enter: the French Bulldog.

He had just adopted one, and oh lord, was he smitten. Within the first ten minutes, I had been shown approximately 74 photos. Here’s the dog on a walk. Here’s the dog wearing sunglasses. Here’s the dog celebrating his birthday. I half expected a slideshow with background music and a laser pointer.

Honestly, if he hadn’t been so ridiculously good-looking, I might’ve pulled a classic escape: fake a call from “mum” and quietly evaporate into thin air. But I persevered, redirected the conversation away from the four-legged star of the show, and—shock horror—we actually had a cracking time. Laughed, chatted, the whole shebang.

We wandered to the station together and stood there in that awkward are-we-going-to-kiss-or-just-stare-into-the-middle-distance-like we're in a British romcom but without the rom or the com? silence. And because I possess more initiative than your average British bloke (not a high bar, let’s be honest), I went in for a peck on the lips and made a swift exit like the mysterious legend I am.

We messaged a bit after that, but the fizz quickly turned to fizzle, and then… nothing. Another almost-something added to the ever-growing pile.

Fast forward a year or so. There I am, back on Hinge (don’t judge me, it’s a hobby now), and who pops up? Mr. Frenchie. He looked vaguely familiar, but not immediately bolt-worthy, so I hit like. He liked me back. We started chatting again. Apparently, he remembered me quite well (rude), and claimed he really liked me back then but thought I wasn’t interested.

I kissed you, you plank. What more do you want? A skywriter?

We tried to set up a second date. You’d think, here we go, second chance romance, right?

Wrong.

Crickets. Again.

I mean, what is with this guy? Why go through the rigmarole of matching, flirting, reminiscing about that magical, dog-saturated evening… only to ghost? Twice.

Honestly, it’s all so very British—the emotional constipation, the overcommitment to under-communicating, the tragic inability to just say, “Actually, I’m not that into this.”

So here I am, one kiss, 74 dog pics, and two ghostings later, trying to decide whether I dodged a bullet or missed out on a dog dad with potential. But hey, at least I got a blog post out of it.

Stay tuned for the next chapter in Chronicles of the Chronically Undateable.