I went out on another date last night. Date #4, or is it Date #5?  I honestly can’t remember. They’ve all blurred into one long string of time-wasting hopelessness. This guy was OK, I suppose. Let’s just say he was the best of a bad lot.

He was old, in his 50s, a bit pudgy around the edges. Look, I know I’m an older woman, but I only just turned 40 and I look 35, or so everyone tells me. I am FED UP  with dating old men. I know I can dress up and (without the baby clinging to my neck) catch the eye of a younger man, someone close to my own age. My knees don’t sag like Demi Moore’s, I can snag a toy boy or two. For fuck’s sake (no pun intended) I want a young buck, with a 6-pack stomach and a tight butt. I think I deserve that. I look after my body, so gimme a guy who looks after his. Fair’s fair.

My date wore JEANS, casual style, which as you know, ain’t my style. At least he had a jacket on and a white shirt. He’d obviously made an effort of some sort. Not much by my standards, but there you go. 

We went to an Italian of his choice, which was crap because I don’t eat dairy, meat or wheat, so that more or less ruled out the entire menu. He ordered squid to share, and they arrived looking exactly like little baby octopus. How can anyone eat something so intelligent and cool? It just ain’t right.

He was much less interesting in person than he was on the phone. On the phone he sounded dark, handsome, sultry and sexy. He sounded intelligent and eco-conscious. I had him billed as an eccentric, wealthy doctor with highly creative tendencies, and a wry sense of humour to match my own. He had intense penetrating eyes, and he cut a sharp figure in an Armani suit. 

It’s funny how you can build up a picture of someone from their voice, and how WRONG that picture can be.

Despite the initial visual shock, I soon got over it. I’m not so superficial as to judge a book by it’s cover. I’m willing to dig deeper beneath the surface of a character, and see if there’s a gem or two inside.

But there wasn’t. Only a few nuggets of fool’s gold to be found.

He talked A LOT about himself. Surprise, surprise. I don’t want to seem sexist, but is there a glut of guys out there that do all the talking, and not enough listening? He was so wrapped up in his own conversation that he didn’t notice that I was struggling to stay awake.

After we (or should I say, he) ate, he wanted to go and have dessert somewhere else. Somewhere less noisy, where we could talk quietly. Unfortunately, I’m far too English to speak my mind in these sort of situations. Although what I really wanted to say was: “Nah, mate. I’m done in. Let’s call it a night, shall we?” Instead, I demurred gracefully and said: that would be lovely. Inside I prayed that everywhere would be closed. But alas, the gelato shop was open late.

I was forced to listen to my date for another entire hour, during which time he demonstrated to me the 1000s of applications he had installed on his iPhone. Things that I never knew existed. This was the most interesting part of the evening. Did you know that your iPhone can be turned into a flute, where you blow into the microphone and tap holes on the screen? You can also tap on the globe icon, and both listen to and see other iPhone flute players from around the world.

Straight up. This is what people are doing while Rome burns. Never mind climate change, or declining biodiversity, this is a SOCIAL APPLICATION peeps. Get with the program. It’s building community. It’s COOL.

Finally, after I learned how to turn my iPhone into a light saber (technically known as a phone saber), I blurted out a yawn and said I needed to get back home or I was going to turn into a pumpkin, pronto. He seemed taken aback, but I’d reached my limits, and frankly I’d rather be blogging than wasting my time with yet another stale date.

I did learn one other interesting fact: he hadn’t paid any fees to join the dating agency, but his best friend’s brother’s daughter worked there, and had got him a free membership. Apparently the agency is “low on men” and so they are looking at other ways to recruit. So I paid thousands of dollars to join an elite,  first-class, top-notch agency, and they send me some dweeb who hasn’t paid a penny.  

I don’t think I need to tell you how much that pisses me off.

In a nutshell, I’m done. Dating has gone to the dogs. A girl’s got limits. I’m not going to do this anymore. I’m taking a time out. Indefinitely. Back to blogging about Flopsy, poop and sleep deprivation.