The Date That Breezed By

You’d think in 2025, with all the apps, algorithms, and supposedly “scientifically proven” compatibility tests, dating would be easier. Spoiler: it’s not. Enter Breeze, the app where you don’t chat, you don’t swipe endlessly, you don’t agonise over whether your first message should be funny or cool. Nope. You just get told where to meet. Simple. Brutal. A bit like being blindfolded and shoved into a pub quiz team without knowing the topic.

So, picture this: I’m house-sitting in the far reaches of north-east London, practically in another postcode altogether. The app pings me with my date location, South West. SOUTH. WEST. If you don’t know London geography, that’s basically the other side of the earth. I might as well have packed a packed lunch and a passport.

But Breeze, in its infinite wisdom, doesn’t let you message your date until four hours before. Which meant I was stuck waiting, stewing, counting down the clock like it was New Year’s Eve but with considerably less champagne. Finally, I was able to message him: “Listen, unless you want me turning up halfway through tomorrow, we need somewhere central.” He agreed. Miracles do happen.

We met at the station. I clocked him immediately. Tall-ish, good looking in a functional sort of way, not my exact cup of tea but not bad either. White tips of hair peeking out above the ears—distinguished, I suppose some would say. My brain whispered: Just dye it, darling. It’s not that hard.

We walked to the bar. It was one of those British evenings: wind whipping, drizzle doing its best to ruin any semblance of hair styling. For reasons that made no sense, we sat outside. Ten minutes later, my hair looked like it had been auditioning for a role in Wuthering Heights. Eventually, blessedly, we moved indoors.

And that’s when the real storm began.

This man could talk. Correction: this man could monologue. He was less “date” and more “one-man podcast”. Every time I opened my mouth with a little story, he just bulldozed through with another anecdote about… himself. It was like conversational whack-a-mole: I popped up, and whack, down I went again. He didn’t so much as feign interest in me, no “and what about you?”, no nodding in encouragement, not even the faintest glimmer of curiosity.

I began mentally planning my escape route.

But then, plot twist, we hit on sports. A rare overlap. Turns out he’d been playing the same sport as me, for about as long as me. I didn’t remember him from the scene, but hey, not everyone is memorable. Then he went full political about it, the decline, the soulless takeover, the big money ruining what used to be authentic. All thanks to some evil investment banker who bought it out and, according to him, “stripped it of its personality.”

And that’s when my inner grin appeared. Because, reader, that investment banker? My ex.

I said nothing. I sipped my drink. I nodded. I let him rant. Because what was I going to say? “Oh, that faceless corporate bogeyman you despise? Yeah, I used to share a toothbrush holder with him.” No, thank you. That little revelation could stay tucked away. Besides, I wasn’t about to give him ammunition that might one day ricochet back to me.

The date fizzled out soon after. I left with windswept hair, a mild headache, and the comforting knowledge that at least I hadn’t had to trek to South West London for the privilege.

Here’s the thing, though: sometimes, the universe serves up these dates not because you’ll meet your soulmate, but because you’ll learn something about yourself. Mine was this, curiosity is magnetic. You don’t need to be the best-looking person in the room, or have the flashiest stories. If you ask questions, listen, and actually see the other person, you stand out. Without it, all you are is background noise.

So, my Breeze date? A dud. But the lesson? Golden.