I had been with my partner for six years when she announced, abruptly, that it was over. I remember she was crying. I was not: I was too stunned. It was as if, in the rulebook of how to end a relationship, she had torn out the last chapter. Disagreements, rows, eating meals in silence, sleeping in separate rooms: these things were all missing from our end sequence. So, at 52, I found myself unexpectedly single.
As well as the pain of the breakup, I was also scared about single life. I had never struggled to meet women, but in the old-fashioned way: at parties, bars and clubs. This was the age of apps. I knew online dating was now a normal part of single life, so I signed up to Hinge, Happn, Guardian Soulmates and Tinder.
I was terrified by the sheer volume of people, all corralled together like items in a vending machine. Then I realised that was it. I thought: is that all you have to say? I decided to be more considered in my approach. The majority of single women within my age range were divorced professionals who were juggling demanding jobs, young children and perpetual exhaustion. Many lived outside London and were struggling to find the time to accommodate the romance they were looking for. How far away do you live?
Who will do the travelling when we meet? How much will it cost to get there and back? How old are your children? Will I play a surrogate role with your kids? How tricky is your ex, and will I have to deal with him?
The list might seem cold and unromantic, but so is swiping the faces of strangers on a phone. I once dated someone with two children under 10, who only saw their father every other weekend. I was expected to fill that role, even though I have my own son. Love begins with pragmatic choices. Armed with these parameters, I revised all my online dating bios. This was my Tinder profile:. I am short-sighted too, so you will look great for ever.
