The Back-Breaking Bore

Hinge. That sacred app where hope goes to flirt and occasionally get mildly traumatised.

So there I was, swiping with the optimism of someone who still believes the next click might just unlock a decent conversationalist—and then bam! Tall. Blonde. Blue eyes. A body that looked like it had vaguely heard of a gym. My type to a T, so naturally, I swiped right, and lo and behold—a match! Cue the smug little shimmy in the kitchen and a cheeky “still got it” whispered to the kettle.

We chatted a bit, and I decided to cut to the chase (as one does when dating in your forties—you haven’t got time to waste on pen pals). I suggested a drink at my beloved local pub. You know the one: best gin selection this side of the Thames, wooden picnic tables, twinkly fairy lights in the beer garden—basically, the romcom of pubs. If you can’t fall in love there, it’s not the location’s fault.

He turned up looking just like his pictures (a rare win), and things kicked off alright. He complimented my outfit (brownie points), ordered a decent gin without asking “what’s good here” (bonus), and even offered to carry the drinks out to the garden (chivalry isn’t dead, just deeply napping).

And then... he opened his mouth.

Now, I love a good story. Who doesn’t enjoy a little brag now and then? But this guy? Oh. My. Word. He didn’t just like the sound of his own voice—he was absolutely serenading himself with it. Every time I tried to jump in with a thought or, heaven forbid, a relatable anecdote, he’d swerve back to talking about some tedious business venture or the time he almost started a restaurant with his dad. (You know the type.)

I nodded politely, smiled in all the right places, but my brain was slowly plotting its escape. I felt like I was trapped in a TED Talk I didn’t sign up for.

Then I noticed the chairs. Wooden, backless, and deeply uncomfortable after about ten minutes. Inspiration struck like a lightning bolt to my lumbar spine.

“Oh gosh,” I said, rubbing my lower back dramatically, “these chairs are murder on the old spine. I think I might be feeling my age!”

That’s the thing about being in your forties—you can say things like that and no one bats an eye. In fact, they nod solemnly and tell you about their physio.

He barely paused his monologue, something about crypto this time, but I knew the seed was planted. I gave it a good twenty more minutes, wincing and shifting in my seat like I’d just done a Zumba class on cobblestones. Eventually, I said I had to cut the night short because the “back just isn’t cooperating.” (Honestly, Oscar-worthy.)

I made a swift exit, did a little victory dance once I turned the corner, and headed home to my sofa, which, for the record, has excellent back support and never talks over me.

But did Mr. One-Man-Show get the hint? Absolutely not.

Next morning, ping: “Had a great time last night, when can I see you again?”

Mate, where? In your next PowerPoint presentation?

I sent the polite-but-firm classic: “Thanks, but I didn’t feel a spark.”

He replied, “Oh, that’s a shame, I thought we really clicked.”

Well yes, darling, you did. Repeatedly. With yourself.

Moral of the story?Good looks might get you the first drink, but listening gets you the second. And if you’re going to talk someone’s ear off, at least bring a chair with a backrest.

Until next time, my fellow romantics. May your drinks be strong, your dates be tolerable, and your excuses be genius.

A Woman with Standards (and lower back pain) 🍸