Alexandra Jones
(Picture: ES / Natasha Pszenicki)I won’t be coy about it, in the two and a bit years that I was single I went on a lot of dates. It wasn’t just me trying to fill the existential void with sex (although, there was an element of that), it was also the fact that in the era of swipe-dating, we are positively encouraged to stack ‘em up. Three dates in a week? Slow week!
The problem is, I’ve had a year off the scene and I now find myself increasingly haunted by the many, many damp-eyed marketing professionals and hairy-knuckled City brokers that I once shared Wednesday night gins with. It’s not so bad if I can remember them — but recently I was at a friend-of-friend’s birthday party and had a full 25-minute conversation with a man before he eventually said, “sorry, do you really not remember me?”. Turns out we’d dated for a few weeks back in 2020. “Who remembers 2020?” I asked meekly. “Well, I do,” he replied.
