Date Diaries: The Repercussions Of Small Town Dating

Date Diaries is a series chronicling the anonymous adventures of those involved in the ever complicated and increasingly unbelievable world of modern dating. To submit your story, fill out the form at the bottom.

This week, Imogen, a 27-year-old heterosexual advertising manager from Oxford tries to get back in the dating game after a disastrous professional sportsman debacle*

In Oxford, the dating pool is small. So small in fact you pretty much can’t look at someone without an ex of an ex finding out. That’s why when I met Sam*, I was quite reserved. I’d recently dated an ex-Olympic swimmer who involved far too many women involved in our love story (classic professional sportsman, you know?) and I wasn’t quite ready for another scandal.

Sam* was charming, classically handsome and successful. We’d met at a work function for our respective companies, and of course I also knew of him through friends of friends. After the event, he slid into my DMs. Since I had sworn of dating for a while, it took a few tries before I eventually agreed to going on a date with him. I didn’t want to let my previous confidence knock put me off all men, so I thought, ‘why not?’

When I agreed to go for a drink that Friday, he was elated. At this point, he had been chasing me for quite some time so naturally I felt quite powerful. But by Thursday night, I hadn’t heard a word. We were yet to agree a time or location, so I messaged to ask what the plans were. No response.

‘Am I being stood up?’ I thought when I woke up to no replies. As the day went on and the clock crept to 1pm, then 2pm, then 3.

By 6pm, I still hadn’t heard anything and I’d resigned myself to a night in with Netflix. Suddenly, he messages, ‘8pm at the Tavern?’. Honestly, I was pissed off. I wasn’t expecting much from this date, but I didn't expect to be left hanging all day only to be given no time to get ready. After all, what if I’d have to work late?

Nevertheless, I’d psyched myself up for this date and I knew I needed to get back in the game. I agreed to the time and ran home from work to have a quick spruce up. He wasn’t in such a rush, it seems, because at 8pm on the dot he sent a second text to say ‘sorry, running 20 minutes late.’

Strike two.

He turned up to pub, 20 minutes later as advised, and if I wasn’t already put off his lateness, I was when I smelt the alcohol on him. It was clear from his stench, and the glazed over-look he was giving me, that he’d already been out drinking.

‘So THAT’S what’s more important than our date’, I thought, beer with the lads. Still, there was no way I was walking out. I’d got ready, ordered a drink and I was too likely to bump into this man again to have it end in a drama. So, I strapped on a smile and carried on. Luckily, it was worth it. For a while.

He ordered a pale blush rosé from the bar, one of my favourites, and our conversation immediately started flowing. He was extremely charming and we had a lot in common, so we were getting on like a house on fire. Unfortunately, that fire was about to get too intense.

Delving into his mental health, which obviously I am happy to talk about, things got serious very quickly when he started to talk about his manic depression. We had gone from light banter to him telling me he sometimes daydreams about driving off a cliff while he’s behind the wheel, and honestly, while I applaud his ability to open up I had no clue how to respond.

It was this sudden juxtaposition in conversation that I couldn’t quite gage, especially on a first date.

By 10pm, we’d covered everything – clearly in a bit too much detail – and he admits he’s been starving for hours. No wonder he was so drunk. I suggested we order some food since we’re at one of the best pub grub places in the city, but he decides it’s time to go for a walk.

As soon as we left the pub, I quickly realised we were walking in one particular direction: to the kebab shop. This man had basically just been on an all-day drinking sesh and needed a kebab. Posh as he was, he tells me he’ll ‘treat’ me to a falafel wrap, and despite our great conversation and obvious connection, I was running out of strikes for this man. (I mean come on, ‘treating’ me to a kebab on a first date? What is this amateur hour?)

Despite the end-of-a-big-sesh vibes, he still wanted to carry on drinking. It was quite late at this point, but two bottles of wine down I wasn’t quite ready to go home either regardless of all the red flags. You know that point in a date where you know you’re never going to see them again so you might as well throw caution to the wind? That was this moment.

He suggests going to another bar and we start to walk towards one when he casually mentions ‘I have a bottle of wine at mine if you’d rather do that’. It just so happens his house was on the way to the ‘bar’ we were headed towards. Classic.

I did the mental arithmetic in my head. Yes this guy had three strikes, yes I was never going to see him again, and yes I was still going to sleep with him because what the fuck else am I getting out of this night.

So, with garlicky falafel breath and no will to live, I went back to his. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he didn’t actually have a bottle of wine at his, just beer. Again, unsurprisingly, I now did not care what alcohol I was drinking, I was just ready to get mine and call this a night.

After a satisfactory evening (the best you can hope for really given how much we’d drank), I went on home and the next day, he messaged me to say he’d had a great time and we should do it again. He suggested Thursday. I knew better.

‘You’re a great guy, but I’m not really in the right headspace for dating,’ I told him, cutting things off in the most mature way I knew (the best thing about living in a small town? No one can ghost anyone). He did what he does best and didn’t reply.

And while it didn’t turn out to be true love, it was definitely exactly what I needed. Like my Olympic swimmer ex, I dived straight back into the dating game and I could only swim up from here…

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