Wart Guy

Right, if you’ve not read my About Me yet – pop over and have a gander. Go on. I’ll wait. You’ll need the context, trust me. Because what you’re about to read is a tale of warped love, warts, wit, and one wildly disappointing man – fondly referred to as Wart Guy. Buckle up.

So, let’s rewind to my third notable romantic misadventure. Eight whole months of what I now realise was a slow descent into nonsense, social subterfuge, and emotional breadcrumbing. Yes, breadcrumbing – the modern art of giving someone just enough to keep them around without offering anything of substance. A delightful dish served cold. Let’s begin, shall we?

Chapter One: The Anxiety Act

When we first got together, Wart Guy told me he had social anxiety. Fair enough, I thought. Empathy cap firmly on. I’m a considerate woman in her 30s (at the time), open-minded, self-aware, and all that jazz.

Except… social anxiety seemed to miraculously vanish whenever he was out porting and partying with his mates. Funny that, isn’t it? Couldn’t face a pub quiz with my friends but could absolutely thrive at the after-party of a sport he barely played. Curious.

Chapter Two: Hampstead Heath & Horrifying Realisations

Fast forward to month seven. We’re walking through Hampstead Heath, as you do when you’re a grown-up trying to pretend you're thriving. Leaves crunching beneath our boots, nature being all romantic and smug.

I, being the sensible sort (with a mild penchant for drama), decided it was time for the talk. You know the one. The classic “Where is this going?” followed swiftly by, “I’d like to have kids in the next couple of years.”

He replies, “Yeah, I want kids too.”

“With me?” I ask, innocently – albeit with one eye on his face for a reaction.

Oh. And what a reaction it was. Shock. Horror. Like I’d just dropped to one knee and pulled out a Haribo ring. I half-expected him to faint into a nearby patch of wildflowers.

At that very moment, I knew. I just knew. This wasn’t going anywhere but south. And not in a sexy, let's-run-away-to-the-coast sort of way.

Chapter Three: The Slow Fade & Netflix Theft

And so began the slow fade. Texts every other day. A vibe colder than a Tesco meal deal fridge. Then came the last supper – or, in our case, a comedy show.

The irony? The entire routine was about breakups. Leaving with grace. Changing your Netflix password.

Reader, I was still logged into his Netflix. Or perhaps, more accurately, he was still logged into mine. Either way, the message landed. Thunk. I needed to end it.

So I did.

Chapter Four: Hinge, Humiliation, and Hysterics

A few weeks later, there he is. On Hinge. Front and centre. Main profile picture? The one I took of him on holiday.

The literal audacity.

I remember joking when I took it: “If we ever break up, you should use this as your dating profile photo.”

Well. He took that bit of advice to heart, didn’t he?

But wait – it gets weirder. His profile? Basically a love letter to… me. Every preference, every reference, every so-called unique interest? My likes. My humour. My films. My flipping movie quotes.

Yet when we split, he told me, “I just wasn’t that into you.”

Sir? What are you doing?

Is this some twisted attempt to save face? Build a better woman, using my personality as the prototype? Frankenstein, but make it romantic disappointment.

Chapter Five: The Tournament Text

We were bound to see each other again. Not on purpose, don’t worry – I wasn’t about to spiral into that cliché. But at a tournament we’d both signed up to months earlier.

He texts: “We’ll probably bump into each other. How should we handle it?”

Handle it?

Mate. This isn’t the UN.

I waited a day (obviously, strategy). Then replied: “Dunno. Hadn’t really thought about it.”

Mature? Not in the slightest. Satisfying? Immensely.

Finale: Strangers in the Night

When I did see him, I walked right past. Gave him the full Strangers in the Night treatment. No eye contact. No nod. Just a chill in the air and a whole lot of unspoken “I’m over this.”

Mature again? Not really.

But you know what? Sometimes maturity is overrated. Sometimes, you just need to reclaim your peace, your Netflix account, and your dignity – one icy shoulder at a time.

So there we are, dear reader. Wart Guy is but a footnote now – a cautionary tale wrapped in awkward silences and borrowed holiday snaps.

Onwards to the next one. And yes – there is a next one.

You will want to read that.

Stay tuned.