The "Analyst"

You know when you match with someone online and think, Yes. This. This is my husband, the father of my imaginary dog, only to discover three pints deep that he's more “footlocker” than “finance bro”? Yeah, welcome to my Tuesday.

Let’s rewind. There I was, house-sitting in a bougie part of North London (pretending it was my natural habitat), swiping through Hinge like I was picking my Sims partner. I stumble upon him. Blonde, blue-eyed, and carrying a little more weight than the BMI police would allow—but honestly, I prefer a guy with a bit of insulation. Skinny men stress me out. I want a boyfriend, not a baguette with abs.

He makes the trek up north to meet me (brownie points), and we head to a pub where the vibes are solid. Chat is flowing. He’s polite—too polite. Like, “will probably write me a thank-you note for the pint” levels of polite. Bants were flying one way, and he was just about catching them with a polite nod. Hmm.

His Hinge profile said “Analyst.” Naturally, I’d imagined some GQ-looking finance lad in a fitted suit who says things like “emerging markets” and drinks oat flat whites. You know, the usual daddy-in-the-making. But no. Turns out, he works in a shoe shop analysing people’s gait. Gait. As in, how people walk. I didn’t even know that was a job. Immediate mojo crash.

Just as I’m mentally drafting a polite but firm "thanks but no thanks" text for later, the pub announces a quiz night. Now, I love a pub quiz. They're my Olympics. He seems unsure, says he wants to "get to know me better" (code for: I want to flirt without knowing who Madonna’s first husband was). But I’m persuasive. We sign up—the only duo in a sea of over-competitive groups of six. Game on.

Shockingly, we work well together. He’s nailing the geography, I’m slaying the pop culture. Like an unlikely pub quiz power couple. Then comes the final round: sudden death word association. He’s up. It's down to him and one other person. The host calls out: “Dog breeds.” I know he told me earlier he couldn’t name any to save his life. He falters. Silence. Out. Tragic.

But plot twist—we still win. Absolute underdog story. I was buzzing. Smart is sexy. My quiz hero. As we walked to the bus stop, he tried to kiss me. I wasn’t quite feeling it yet, so I opted for a hug-cuddle hybrid that said, “I like you, but I also might ghost you.”

Fast forward to Date Two. Park vibes. We’re drinking, chatting, flirting. I’m warming up. He’s got this boyish charm and opens up about his tough childhood—shared a bedroom with two siblings in a council house. I mean, life deals different cards, right? But then he casually drops: “My life goal is to get a house from the council.” Wait. What? As in, aim-for-mediocrity-on-purpose vibes?

The ick was knocking, but... well, I was horny. Judge me later.

We went back to mine and let’s just say the boy had talents. Olympic-level talents. Gold medal in hands. I made up some exhausted excuse and got him out before I caught feelings—or heard more about his ambitions to live rent-free forever.

Couple days later, I spot him on the street. With a girl. My polar opposite—tall, twiggy, pink hair. And I felt a pang. Excuse me? Why am I jealous? I don’t even like him. But apparently, my ego does.

Later, he comes over again. I couldn’t help it—straight to the bedroom. Round two: also elite. But after, he hits me with, “I was out with my cousin.” Oh. So now I’m not only jealous, I’m stupid.

Then I tried the ol’ “I’m exhausted” excuse again, but he clocked me. “If this is just a fling, you should’ve said.” Ouch. He wasn’t wrong. But what was I meant to say? “Sorry babe, your long-term plans gave me the ick and I can’t sponsor a man with zero hustle”?

He left, tail between his legs. We never spoke again.

Could I have handled it better? Probably. Should I have? Debatable.

Sometimes, a girl's just after a good time—not a guy whose idea of ambition is becoming a kept man with council support.

Still, 10/10 quiz partner. Would recommend for trivia nights, not life plans.