Ghosted by Ick Man

Ah, redundancy. That glorious rite of passage where your job evaporates, your routine implodes, and suddenly you're eating brunch on a Tuesday like a rogue retiree. A few months ago, that’s exactly what happened to me. One moment I was clinging to a corporate identity, the next I was free—jobless, but free.

Enter: Hinge. Naturally. Because what else is a modern woman to do when she's got too much time and too few distractions? Swipe, swipe… bam! A match. A Greek Adonis-type (or so I told myself). He too had just been made redundant. What luck! Unemployment solidarity, a shared disdain for productivity, and a mutual love for midweek beer in the sunshine.

We did what any self-respecting duo of the recently jobless would do: lounged in parks, sipped lukewarm lagers, and behaved like we were starring in some kind of indie romance film funded entirely by Sainsbury’s meal deals.

He was into it. I mean really into it. Public displays of affection that would've made your nan blush. Kissing, cuddling, clinging. Like a human scarf. He couldn't get enough of me. And at first? I didn’t hate it.

But as the days wore on—and the leg stroking increased—I began to notice things. His head. Not metaphorically. Literally. It was… big. Monumental, even. Like a bobblehead. And then there were the legs. Smooth. Too smooth. Shaven to the gods. Was he a cyclist? A swimmer? A seal? No just Greek.

I couldn’t put my finger on what was off. But slowly, inevitably, the ick crept in. That creeping, crawly, unshakable feeling that turns "aww" into "ugh" without warning. But I wasn’t heartless—I still enjoyed the company. We dated for a month, hopping from bars to bistros to bad films with overpriced popcorn. He was nice. Nice enough. Just not… it.

Meanwhile, in a burst of post-redundancy inspiration (and perhaps fuelled by one too many hazy afternoons), I’d launched a bike tour business. Naturally, I roped him in to be my guinea pig. To his credit, he was brilliant. Charming. Fun. Didn’t crash once.

I told him, breezily, that I’d be running another tour for some mates and he should swing by the pub afterwards to meet everyone. Just a casual “drop in if you fancy.” No pressure. No DTR (define the relationship) chat. Just mates meeting mates.

He ghosted me.

No text. No excuse. No "this has been lovely but..." Just—poof. Gone. Vanished like a sun-soaked dream of redundancy romance. I checked my phone, refreshed the apps, even debated sending a “Hey, everything okay?” before reminding myself that I wasn’t that invested. But it stung a little. Mostly because…

I was ghosted by the guy I had the ick for.

The irony! This man, who had once practically suction-cupped himself to my face in Hyde Park, had decided I was moving too fast. He probably thinks I was trying to introduce him to my parents via a pint at The Prince. In reality, I was just casually filling a pub bench.

So now, somewhere in London, there’s a Greek man with very smooth legs who believes he rejected me. And I—jobless, mildly sunburnt, and left holding a warm beer—am haunted by the ghost of a relationship I wasn’t even sure I wanted.

Still, at least my bike tour business is off to a flying start. And if nothing else, I now know that love in the time of redundancy is a wild, weird, and occasionally waxed-legged ride.

Until next time, may your Hinge matches have normal-sized heads and leave without ghosting.

Fancy another tale from the dating trenches or the freelance life? Stick around. This chaos is far from over.