Speed Dating Madness

There’s something wonderfully chaotic about saying “yes” to things just for the hell of it. That’s exactly what happened when I made a new mate from the women’s club I’d joined. You know the type—funny, fearless, the kind of woman who could make reading gas meter instructions feel like a night out. We hit it off immediately and within a few weeks, we were doing things like attending speed dating events… because why not?

Now, neither of us were looking for “the one”—more like “the one with decent shoes and a job”. So we threw on our best make-an-effort-but-not-trying-too-hard outfits, turned up early, and bagged ourselves a booth before the hordes descended. That’s when it all began.

Enter: The Saunterer.

He had this slow, deliberate way of moving, like someone who’d watched too many cowboy films but hadn’t quite nailed the swagger. Long hair, awkward grin, probably late 20s. You know when someone sits down and you instantly feel... something’s off? That.

He immediately launched into questions with the intensity of someone doing a surprise tax audit. “How old are you?” Not even a "hi" first. My friend, confidently replied “45,” and I added “39,” which was true (and remains so in spirit, thank you very much). He turned his entire body to face me and goes, “I’m only interested in women in their 30s.”

Reader, I died.

My poor friend may as well have vanished into thin air. I could’ve held up a “SHE’S STILL HERE” sign and he wouldn’t have blinked. We humoured him for a bit, but it was awkward, and frankly, not in a charming Hugh Grant sort of way.

Once the official rounds began, the prospects didn’t exactly improve. There was one guy who looked promising—tall, confident, a bit of a James Bond smirk. But it turned out he’d only signed up an hour before and had already glued himself to the event’s designated “hottest girl”. The rest of us might as well have been coat racks. The audacity.

Afterwards, still hopeful and definitely in need of a drink, we headed downstairs to the dance floor. Now this was our vibe—just two women letting loose to dodgy 90s tunes, not a care in the world… until suddenly—bam—he was back.

The Saunterer.

Right up in my face, blinking at close range like a malfunctioning Ring doorbell. “Can I have your number?”

“Erm… no?”

I backed up. He stepped forward. “Can I please have your number?” Still too close. No sense of personal space. My friend gave me the universal “you ok?” look. I wasn’t.

I had to signal over security, and even they took a beat longer than I’d have liked—probably confused by the fact that I was being hounded by someone who looked like he’d just wandered off a Lord of the Rings set.

Eventually, he left. But not my mind. Oh no, that memory etched itself in forever.

Fast forward a few months and I’m at the pub on a date with someone new (normal, kind, didn’t ask my age within three seconds). I glance up from my G&T, and who’s clearing glasses behind the bar?

You already know.

Yep. It was him. The Saunterer turned Bust Boy.

There I was, frozen mid-sip, wondering whether I could hide behind a pint glass. But miraculously, he didn’t recognise me. Thank every deity and minor house spirit for that. I must’ve looked so radically different out of the dating environment, or maybe he just didn’t log human faces like that. Either way—bullet dodged.

So, moral of the story? Say yes to new adventures. Say no to boundary-challenged strangers. And never underestimate the power of a well-timed security guard and a strong support act of girlfriends.

Also, always check who’s working behind the bar before you start ordering doubles.

Stay tuned. There’s always another tale waiting in the wings.

—Fancy more disaster dates, unlikely friendships, and social landmines? You’re in the right place. Stick around… it only gets weirder.