WHEN Boris Johnson declared lockdown it felt like the death knell for my dating life.
All restaurants, nightclubs, theatres and cinemas closed for months. I understood why this was necessary, but as a single girl it made me feel even more alone.
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What about dating? No flirty drinks or getting tipsy until last orders. No dinner dates. No snuggling up with a hot guy watching the latest movie.
I’m on the apps Bumble, Tinder and Hinge. But what’s the point in swiping if I can’t meet anyone?
But Hinge did its research and argues that 70 per cent of users are up for a phone or video call. I decide to give it a try.
If nothing else, it will kill time during self-isolation.
Day one
I update my profile by deleting interests like “exploring the great outdoors” and flick my location reach to the maximum: 100 miles.
I’m in lockdown with my mum in Herts so this means I could potentially match with a man in Nottingham, but that doesn’t matter if we’re only talking.
More rules go out the window. My age limit was 31 to 45, now it’s 25 to 50.
Height is a strict dealbreaker for me. I’m 5ft 9in so men under 6ft don’t usually get a look in. Now? Hobbits form an orderly queue. My net is cast wide.
I start swiping on a Saturday night. Under normal circumstances, this would seem lame. These are not normal circumstances.
The first profile picture I see on Tinder shows a tower of toilet rolls, captioned: “What more could a girl want?” The bar is set low.
Day two
The social-distancing banter is flying.
On Hinge I match with Simon, 39, a chef who opens with: “I have hand sanitiser, if you have flour we’ll make the perfect team.” Sexy.
Phil, 38, who claims to play guitar in a band is “looking for an isolationship!”
On Bumble I match with David, 35, an engineer with sparkling blue eyes.
Women make the first move on this app so I ask: “Where will we go as soon as this is over?” He replies: “Yours.” Cheeky. Messages ping back and forth between us.
What’s the best holiday you’ve been on? Do you get on with your family? Where do you see yourself in the future?
Since I see little prospect of a random bloke joining my social bubble any time soon, the pressure is off.
Day three
David asks for my number so we can move to Whatsapp. It’s always best to strike while the iron’s hot or things fizzle out. Isolation win!
Today I match with Andy, 25, a barman. He loves his dog Pepper and says pizza is his favourite food.
Two weeks ago I’d have rolled my eyes. Now his innocence comes as welcome light relief. I give him my number too. He seems harmless.
I take a trip to the supermarket and find myself relaying the experience to an artist called Alex, 29.
He tells me he hates hoarders and is polyamorous.
Let’s be clear. Too much loo roll and pasta: Outrageous. Multiple partners: Fine. What warped times we live in.
Day four
David, who lives in Maidstone, Kent, has hung a hammock in his garden to enjoy the sunshine and enforced downtime. “Wish you could join me,” he messages.
Young Andy spontaneously FaceTimes me. I’m out for a walk with no make-up on and unwashed hair.
I shut the call down and a message pings: “Your hair is mad. LOL.” What does he expect with salons shut?
I never hear from him again. Probably for the best.
Ben, 32, a gardener on Hinge asks for my postcode. Why? To fly a drone over my house. “You stand out front and wave,” he says. My heart sinks.
But I perk up when David messages with: “Fancy a Skype date soon, darling?” Yes I do.
Day five
The Skype date, my first virtual date, is locked down for tomorrow at 8pm.
David suggests we order each other a Deliveroo takeaway, keeping what we’ve picked secret so it’s a surprise. How cute. I couldn’t be more excited.
I set up my laptop in the dining room to test out camera angles and check the lighting is flattering.
David mentioned a holiday of a lifetime in Thailand. A Thai green curry will be a hit. Guaranteed.
My mum watches telly every night in the living room, next door to where my date will take place.
By 8pm tomorrow some cacophonic theme tune will be blaring. Hopefully he will understand.
Day six
Plenty of perks to getting ready for a virtual date. No need to shave your legs or pick shoes. I put on a sexy top and pull on some comfy leggings. He’ll never know!
An hour to go and my phone bleeps. David has transferred £20 so I can buy wine. Nice touch!
At 8pm I feel butterflies in my stomach. Seconds later he’s on my screen looking hot in a crisp blue shirt.
“Hi,” I blurt. He stands up to reveal grey trackies and we dissolve into fits of laughter. The perfect ice-breaker.
He’s thrilled with his curry and ordered me a delicious pasta dish.
Conversation flows and what’s nice is the lack of interruptions — no loud music nor over-attentive waiters.
We end the night playing flirty drinking games. “Get home safely,” he says and we agree to do this again.
I fall into bed with a huge smile on my face.
Just like regular dating, if the person you are on a date with is right, it works.
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