1
‘Remember: you’re all here to score tonight!’
Oh, boy. It’s going to be like that, is it?
It’s strange because you think you know where you are in life, both personally and on the timeline of the history of the world, and then you discover something that rattles you.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that thirty-two isn’t old by any stretch of the imagination, but I am finding myself noticing things that I never thought would happen. Take music, for example. You think you’re young and hip and you’ve got your finger on the pulse until one day when you venture into the top-streamed chart and you realise that not only do you find songs actively annoying, but you hardly know who anyone is. In fact, the only songs you do know are songs that were around when you were younger, ones that have been remixed to appeal to a younger generation.
To be honest, it’s that kind of realisation that’s on my mind tonight, because something I had thought of as fairly standard (although still deeply unpleasant) is tonight being touted as some quirky retro event from a bygone era – speed dating.
I guess it makes sense, everyone is so chronically online these days – myself included – so naturally dating apps are one of the first stops on the road to romance (if you can stomach staying on a bus full of creeps, ghosters and sleazes, that is).
Meeting people in real life only feels more and more impossible as you get older. Not going on as many nights out seriously limits how many people you meet, and how much you work means less and less time to actually try to meet people out and about – which only leaves the potential to date people from work, and that’s never a good idea. Well, what happens when you break up? I can’t even imagine the awkwardness of having your ex around you all the time, especially when you’re trying to do your job – the thing that pays your bills. You just can’t mess with that. I kept bumping into my most recent ex at my local supermarket, we weren’t ever serious but seeing him felt so awkward, so I did what any sensible, mature grown woman would do – I started shopping somewhere else.
So, fair enough, I guess that means events like this are a way to go, I just feel so weird about it being pitched as something retro. If something I tried in my twenties is now retro, I must be getting on.
I’m not looking forward to it this evening just like I wasn’t looking forward to it back then either. To me, speed dating is a bit like playing Russian roulette. It’s sitting at a table, potentially putting yourself in danger, because God knows who you’re going to meet. Every round could be the worst-case scenario. The best you can hope for are the duds. The blanks. Have I mentioned that I don’t have high hopes for this at all?
Whether it’s an ironic return or not, speed dating is back. I suppose I could try to be grateful that it keeps the process streamlined, but you can’t always rush these things.
Tonight you only get a matter of minutes with each man (which is the last thing a girl wants, usually). Minutes don’t exactly give the earth time to move – it’s definitely not long enough to work out if someone is boyfriend material or the kind of bloke you’ll see crop up on a Netflix true crime documentary.
I’m here, I’m dressed up, I’m sipping my £25 cocktail, sitting on a stool so high I might have to pursue one of these men just so he’ll help me down. We’re in one of those painfully trendy London bars where the furniture is more style over substance and the drinks are more credit card than coin prices. This one is called Room. They also own a restaurant called Eat. Why am I letting that annoy me?
The organisers have done their best to make it romantic, just, I don’t know, almost sarcastically so. Candles, roses, sexy jazz music playing softly, love-heart-shaped balloons almost everywhere you turn. And of course all of the drinks have stupid names like a ‘Happy Ever After’ and a ‘Magical Night’ – as though either of those things feel remotely possible tonight.
It’s hard not to be cynical when the air is thick with the smell of booze and cheap aftershave… that said, the fact that I don’t feel at all ready to move on romantically could be coming into play here, like a reflex to keep myself safe. But I’m here now, and the ‘fun’ will be kicking off soon, so I just need to get it over with. You know what they say: when in Room.
Our host tonight is a very enthusiastic woman called Julie – a woman who never should have been given an amp, because she hasn’t quite grasped the idea that the microphone is to remove the need to shout, not something you need to shout into to make it work. I’m not quite sure what she’s doing to generate such excruciating noises from the speaker, but I’m sitting right next to it and the high-pitched sounds and the crackling make me flinch every time. Shit, I’ve caught her eye. And – great – she’s coming this way.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asks me, approaching me with a degree of caution. The kind that makes me wonder whether these things usually kick off. ‘You look a little… crazy.’
Way to boost a girl’s self-confidence, eh? Because men just love crazy.
‘Oh, I’m okay,’ I reassure her. ‘It’s just the feedback.’
I’m lucky she isn’t talking to me through the mic right now, given that she’s leaning on the amp while she chats to me, or the noise would be even worse.
She sighs.
‘Look, I’m sure there are many things they could write down about your personality or your appearance, why you might not be for them, but everyone is different. Different folk like different things. People are into all sorts – I’ve seen it all, trust me. Someone is bound to like you.’
Oh, fantastic, she thinks I’m worrying about the feedback I’ll get from my speed dates, not the screeching sound she keeps inadvertently forcing out of the speaker.
‘Thank you,’ I say politely.
She heads off back to her post, smiling like she’s done her good deed for the day, oblivious to the fact that I’m trying to trip her up with the daggers I’m shooting her way. Because what did she mean: there are many things they could write down about your personality or your appearance? She can’t know my personality, obviously, but she can see me. What’s wrong with the way I look? What could anyone possibly take that much issue with that they wouldn’t even give me a shot? I’m dressed up, made-up, I’ve done my hair. I look like I’ve made an effort and that’s what people want, right? Except now I’m second-guessing whether I’m too big or too small, if my nose isn’t right, if I have eyebrow blindness (again – I seem to come down with a case every couple of years). Why am I even considering this? As I’ve said, I don’t care. I’m not here to impress or disappoint anyone (although Lord knows I’m anticipating the latter now), I’m here to get this over with. I’ll be back home before I know it, in bed, reading a book or watching TV, with a huge cup of tea, all on my own, just the way I like it.
But first…
‘Now, I need you all to be open-minded, okay?’ Julie bellows through the mic. It’s hard to believe she’s ever done this before. Hosting an event, using a mic, speaking to people generally… ‘If you like what you see, score highly, if you don’t, stick it in the feedback,’ she continues.
God, I hate that. I really hate that. Is that really necessary? Fair enough, not everyone has to like everyone, but I don’t know how much any of the women sitting here at these tables need written feedback to support the low scores they might get from the line of men queued up at the side of the room. Then again, I don’t know what’s worse, reading why you got a two out of ten for personality, or never knowing why.
I scan the crowd of men as they all find their starting tables. The event is for young, fun, sexy singles who are up for anything. And me, I guess, because as I’m sure you can tell, I’m not feeling all that fun or sexy, I’m up for very little, and to be honest when I’m in crowds like this I don’t feel all that young any more, even though some of the people here are clearly older than me. Sometimes youth feels like a state of mind. My grandparents are in their eighties and you’d never guess. Good spirits (my gran would say positivity, my grandad would say whisky) and infallible optimism are all it takes. My cynicism, pessimism and general ‘can’t be arsed’ approach must stick a decade each on me. We’ll see if anyone mentions it in the feedback, if I even read it.
I glance down at my scorecard. A neat little grid where I’m supposed to jot down names, scores, notes and ultimately either tick a box for ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Can it really be that easy to find love? I seriously doubt it.
