We are 20 days into 2025 and my 14th year of dating, and, ladies and gentlemen, we have a new entry into my top five worst dates of all time. I am writing this from my bed fort, in my pyjamas, 37 minutes after the date ended. 83 minutes after it started.

A few years ago I wrote about my worst ever date. One day I will write about my 2nd worst ever date. Today, we have an immediate entry to number 3. Whilst my first Breeze date personified the best of the apps USP of not having a chat function, today’s date – my second off the app – epitomised how even the best laid plans can oft’ go awry.

Breeze lets you know the venue of your date 24 hours before it happens. Last time it was a perfectly fine bar just off Brick Lane. Today’s date, the immensely fancy bar at The Shard. Even though I am a Londoner, I’ve never been in The Shard, so this was exciting and a novelty. However, after a look over the bar menu, the fanciness of the venue was apparent and inadvertently added a new stake to proceedings. This was going to be a properly romantic venue, the date would have to live up to it right?

Oh, sweet naïve me of barely two hours ago. How wrong we would be. How hopeful we once were. And now, as soon as I finish writing this, I’ll be googling availability in the nearest nunneries and finally making of official, for once and for all.

I arrived to the entrance looking and feeling glam, I had risen to the fancy occasion and worn my current favourite outfit (fitted check dress, black heels, dragon statement necklace and baby blue swing coat). From a short distance, I spied my date. And, I hate to say it, although it may be relatable to anyone who has used the apps, my heart sank. Z had lied about his height (by *at least* five inches) and used what could only be described as immensely flattering photos on his profile.

I tried to slow my entrance, quite possibly in the hope that my actual date would appear. I ended up just behind Z in the security queue, he didn’t seem to spot me whilst I continued to hope that this was all just a weird coincidence and that this similarly-looking man had arrived to the same bar at the same time.

We ended up in the same lift. I exchanged prayers with all available higher powers that this man was not my date. Surely he would have said something by now if he was actually my date?!?

‘I think I know you?’ is what he said as we both excited the lift on the 32nd floor of The Shard.

Well, that was confirmation wasn’t it. My fears now confirmed, I admitted defeat – as well as the fact that no, I wouldn’t be able to leap from the 32nd floor and survive

Z wasn’t rude, intentionally. Maybe. Possibly. I think? He was just so awkward it was excruciating. As much as I tried to will it, to start with, at least, before my capacity was totally spent, conversation just would not flow. He presented as a man who had never spoken to women before. Half-finished sentences were mumbled incoherently, accompanied by uncomfortable levels of the eye contact. Questions were answered with minimal responses. Everything had to be deciphered as I did all the heavy lifting in carrying what could barely be called conversation. I literally was being given nothing work work with.

The most he said in one go was a monologue he delivered about what an attractive woman I was. A speech that was so earnest and laboured and unsettling that describing it as ‘ick-induing’ would be the greatest understatement in all of history – it resulted in my hiding in the toilet for as long as felt socially acceptable.

Upon my return, nothing changed. It all felt so synthetic and inorganic, requiring a surplus of emotional labour and social battery that I was unable to supply. He tried to make jokes that landed so poorly they were essentially insults.

We were in this exceptional venue with breath-taking views and wonderful ambiance, and I was reduced to asking Z about which tube line he uses to get to work. That’s how bad it got. We’d already exhausted any other topic of interest. Our incompatibility would have been a buzzkill for the ten dates in our vicinity. I’m surprised we weren’t penalised and charged for how much we’d drained the vibes.

Z asked if I had time for dinner. I politely declined, feigning how I felt unwell and should probably head home. The waiter appeared with a bill for the bottle of water we’d had alongside our pre-paid glasses of wine (something I outlined in my write-up of my last date). Z did a comedy skit about how expensive the water was (£7.50). He was so focused on said comedy skit that he was oblivious to the waiter stood right next to him with the card reader. In my desperation to leave, I lunged across the table and tapped my card. This did not cease the skit, or result in any semblance of thanks for paying.

‘Which way are you headed? Tube or underground?’, I asked – loathing the role that TFL had played in the short while we had been conversing. As soon as possible I made my leave wishing him a ‘get home safe!’ with no intent to ever see or speak to him again.

So now I’m out of pocket £7.50 for a bottle of water, a totally drained social battery and also any hope that I’ll ever find romantic love.