The Clapham Ick

After a few days of polite chit chat, I found myself agreeing to a Saturday night drink with a 34-year-old — younger, cheeky, blue-eyed, and with that mischievous charm that makes you think, yes, this could be fun.

We were meant to meet near London Bridge, my territory, convenient and civilised. But then came the text: “Bit tired, fancy coming to Clapham instead?” A small red flag fluttered in the distance. But there I was, mascaraed and mildly optimistic, hopping on a train to South London because apparently my boundaries dissolve when faced with a good jawline and a winky emoji.

He was 15 minutes late. Fifteen. I loitered near the shops pretending to browse candles while muttering my life choices into the glass window. I’m religious about punctuality — early even — yet I always end up dating people who treat time like it’s optional. Anyway, he arrived, apologetic but buzzing with energy, talking faster than a horse race commentator. It was oddly endearing, in a chaotic sort of way.

We had a great first date, genuinely. Drinks, laughs, a good spark and a kiss that was lovely — though faintly flavoured with truffle. Not exactly my favourite aftertaste, but I tried not to be dramatic. We even set up two more dates that same week. A rare and promising move.

Tuesday rolled around. He came to my area this time, a gesture of fairness, but again — 15 minutes late. The tubes, of course. Classic London scapegoat. I gritted my teeth, forgave him again, and we ended up having a good night: drinks, dinner, chemistry. I did notice he had a wandering eye though. Not in a subtle, accidental glance sort of way, more in a “let’s see what else is on the menu” sort of way. Mildly off-putting, especially when I was trying not to drool over the godly waiter. We ended the night with a passionate alleyway kiss (romantic in theory, drafty in practice).

Now, I’ll admit something: I’m an overthinker. My anxious attachment style loves a challenge, and this one had my brain doing somersaults. The waiting-for-texts phase is brutal. One unread message and I’m rewriting our entire story in my head.

Anyway, Sunday was meant to be movie day. He suggested we watch one at mine, which set off a siren in my head louder than a fire drill. You know the code. Third date, his “movie at yours” tone came with more entitlement than invitation. I suggested cinema instead — keep it classy, keep it public.

Sunday came. I was hanging by a thread after a big Friday and Saturday but still made the effort. He asked to push the time back half an hour because of the gym (priorities). I was already ready, so I left early and made my way to his side of town again. Then, at 2:25, he messaged: “Tube’s not running, will need to bus it.”

A man. Training for a marathon. But not capable of checking TfL.

He waited thirty minutes for a bus that never came, while I sat at a grim pub surrounded by yelling football fans. The décor was sticky. The vibe was tragic. I eventually gave up and went back to the station. After an hour, he arrived — late again — having just dumped his rental bike on the pavement. I had to point out he’d get charged if he didn’t park it properly, so we spent another twenty minutes wrestling with the app. My soul left my body at that point.

The rest of the date limped along. He inhaled his meal like it was an Olympic sport and made endless small talk about his journey, the bike, the gym, his protein intake… I tried to suppress the ick. Truly, I tried.

At the cinema, he laughed so loudly I wanted to crawl into the popcorn machine. Afterwards, he took me to another pub. At the bar, he ordered a pint and asked what I wanted — a soda water, I said, still hanging — and then he said he would find us a table, leaving me to pay for the drinks.

That was it. The ick officially moved in, unpacked its bags, and redecorated my insides.

I made my excuses, we left, and outside he tried one last time to invite himself to mine. I kissed him on the cheek, muttered something polite, and made my swiftest exit.

Over the next few days, I tried the gentle fade. You know, the “short replies, no emojis, surely you’ll get the hint” fade. But he did not. Double texts. Selfies. A truly unforgivable “does my new haircut look sexy?” message. (Spoiler: it did not.) Then came the final straw — a text that required me to “read between the lines”. Gross. I sent the polite rejection text.

He replied with a thumbs up and deleted me. Classy.

Back to the drawing board.

Lesson learned: Sometimes the universe sends you people to remind you of your boundaries. To remind you that you deserve effort, presence and a proper plan. That “bare minimum” is not an aesthetic. The ick isn’t always about them — sometimes it’s your intuition quietly packing your bags for you.

And if you ever find yourself waiting alone in a Clapham pub surrounded by football chants, just know — the lesson has already arrived.