Mickey Mouse Guy

Ahhh, dating during the Covid era — what a fever dream. You lot remember, don’t you? Those highly romantic walks in the park, keeping a stiff two metres between you and the stranger you’d swiped right on during a moment of lockdown loneliness. Nothing quite says “potential soulmate” like awkwardly power-walking past a bin, avoiding eye contact, and trying to gauge someone’s personality through a mask and muffled banter.

Well, gather round. Let me tell you about that time I went for a pandemic park date in Hampstead Heath — a picturesque setting, sure, but it turned into less of a rom-com and more of a “what not to wear meets mild existential dread” situation.

So, I’d matched with this chap on Hinge. Age-appropriate (a rare gem), reasonably good-looking in a filtered, holding-a-dog kind of way. Medium height — which, as any online dater knows, means “definitely not tall but trying to manage expectations.” Still, it was lockdown, my standards were... flexible, and I was in the mood for a stroll that didn’t involve dodging toddlers on scooters.

As I approached our meeting point, there he was. Slightly less photogenic in person, but still recognisable. And then my eyes drifted south — not in a saucy way, unfortunately. He was wearing... and I kid you not... a Mickey Mouse T-shirt.

Now, I’m all for a bit of whimsy, but this was not some ironic hipster statement. This was the unironic, cotton-clingy symbol of a man who either (a) lives for Disney merch, (b) shops in the children’s section, or (c) has completely given up. Add to that a pair of shapeless shorts, oversized socks rolled up with almost military precision above his brown loafers — yes, loafers — and I could physically feel my mojo pack its bags and call an Uber.

Still, I soldiered on. Maybe he was hiding a dazzling personality under that cartoon mouse and 90s geography teacher vibe.

He was not.

The chat was middling at best. A bit of dry small talk, the occasional statement that made me question his grasp on social cues. Then came the pièce de résistance: he casually mentioned he lived with his mum. “Just temporarily,” he said. “Since before Covid.” Which, by then, had been about a year and a half.

Right. Sure, mate.

Now, I’m not judging anyone for their living situation (we’ve all been there — rent is an absolute daylight robbery), but pair that with the Mickey Mouse tee and the complete lack of conversational flair, and I just couldn’t summon the will to do another socially-distanced lap of the Heath.

We wrapped up our walk — no touching, obviously (Covid rules and my dignity firmly intact) — and went our separate ways. I never messaged him again. He never messaged me. A silent, mutual unmatch born from the slow, shared realisation that neither of us had found our lockdown love story.

So, if you're ever tempted to meet a stranger in a park again, just remember: it might be romantic. Or it might be Mickey Mouse, rolled socks and the crushing disappointment of mediocre chat.