WLTM

I’ve been lurking around certain sorts of websites recently. Two in particular. Both are a means of replacing missing elements from my life, but there’s a slightly disturbing crossover in the nature of them. I keep getting confused over which page I’m looking at.

I am a: Man.
Looking for a: Woman.
Aged: 26-35.
Less than: 50,000 miles.
Transmission: Manual.

No, no. Hold on. Let’s try that again.
Under: £5,000
Age: 2004 +
GSOH: Oh, yeah.
Likes: Outdoors, theatres, books.

Okay, so finding a car is just irritating – although being without one has reminded me quite how much I love driving and, interestingly, shown how incredibly difficult it is to acquire a car without actually having one. Not only are garages rarely conveniently located adjacent to railway stations, but they tend to only open until lunchtime on a Saturday, effectively giving a four hour weekly window to assess my options.

Even so, it’s not really in the same league as finding myself a new girlfriend. I find these dating websites completely bizarre. You input your specification and browse through photos and descriptions that can’t help be anything other than a bit naff. How can you possibly compress a whole person in one-hundred-and-forty characters? Do you want to meet someone who doesn’t have an attention space longer than eight seconds?

The problem is: I don’t really want to date anyone. I’m not exactly emotionally ready to embark on a new relationship, but having been tied up from the age of seventeen until twenty-nine, I don’t actually know how to date. So, given that I expect the first few to completely disastrous (not that writing about this in the public domain is going to help) I thought I’d get them out of the way before I actually gave a toss.

How does dating actually work? I mean, obviously I understand the basic mechanics of it. You meet somewhere, perhaps go for dinner or the theatre or, I don’t know, the cinema? If I actually put some thought into it I should be able to come up with something a little more tantalising. Hopefully, we’d go for a drink afterwards, but it’s what happens next I’m a bit confused about.

Do men actually escort women home? I can see that you’d do this partially to ensure her safety, partially to continue the I-hope-to-god- scintillating conversations you’re having and (let’s be honest) because there might be the opportunity of a “night cap.” Does anyone do this? Even in London where she might live an hour in the opposite direction and should no “night cap” be forthcoming you’ve got a two shlep home on a week night and the last train just left?

I’ve never had to worry about this sort of thing. The last first date I went on she got picked up by her Dad from the pub at last orders.

“Perhaps I’m worrying about this too much?”

“Maybe,” Michael nodded in agreement probably wishing we were having a different conversation. “Things just happen. You meet people at random parties.”

“Yeah,” I said, lacking conviction. That had been my initial opinion as well, but as we sat in the kitchen of my fourth random party that month I wasn’t holding my breath. There was only one woman in the building who wasn’t married and/or either futilely pursuing an over-excited child or looking as though she could give birth to one any minute and that was Michael’s fiancée.

“I don’t believe people actually date,” one of the Steves mused in the pub last year. “Don’t you just end up with someone from your social group?”

Well, that’s what happened last time, but as I ran though everyone I even vaguely knew I came up with seven people who were single. Four of those people were women.
One was my sister, one was my ex’s sister, one too old and one too young.

“It isn’t looking good,” I muttered.

“Speed dating?” suggested the other Steve.

Now, I know speed dating has worked for this Steve, but to me it seems... I don’t know... Fake? We’re back to the compression of souls into two minute spools? Aren’t you left, in the end, just ticking the boxes of those you fancy and don’t have helium fuelled voices or have managed to express disturbingly right wing views instantly? Or maybe them too, if they’re the only ones you fancy. And this, kind of, makes it like a nightclub with better lighting, less booze and dancing and a strange layer of middle management facilitating the whole mess.

Defiantly worrying too much.