If ever there was a good time for a meteor to hit East London, it would be now. Trinkkumpel, a German-themed bar in Hoxton, is crammed full of apprehensive, perfume-drenched singletons, all covertly checking each other out before the speed dating event begins. I grab a wine and curse Alex Steward for convincing me that this was a good idea. I don’t want to be brave any more, I want to spend my Friday night being a monumental coward at home in bed, eating a chocolate orange.
Above the bar, where the dirndl and lederhosen-clad staff Oktoberfest themselves into a frenzy, is a board stating that they serve over thirteen different types of sausage and I chuckle to myself, thinking how fitting that is given the number of men in attendance. The bar itself is a traditional, if somewhat kitschy Bier Halle: a basement dwelling with wooden tables and red-tiled pillars holding the weight of the thick ligneous ceiling beams. On weekends they have Bavarian folk music (no doubt oompah based) and every second Wednesday they have speed dating.
My large, white name tag and I take a seat at table six out of fifteen. I look down at the empty match card: a list of numbers with a yes or no box beside them. These are to be filled out after the end of the three minutes, probably so they don’t see you viciously stabbing the no box with your pencil while they’re sat in front of you. There’s also a small space to jot down any pertinent information, like their name or the fact that they also love Oreos and breathing. Or just to writeHelp meand slip it to security.
I smile politely at the woman sitting to my right. She’s probably late thirties, brunette, perfectly groomed, wearing a red sparkly dress and equally dazzling earrings. Compared to her, I am hopelessly underdressed. I knew I shouldn’t have asked Naomi for advice.
‘Wear whatever you want, just don’t show up in a feckin’ ballgown, missing a slipper. Disney desperation isn’t attractive.’
I went for jeans, a blue top and a smart blazer, now wishing it made me look a little less middle-aged. I’ve seen a resurgence in this look recently but mainly on twenty-five-year-olds who still drink coffee for fun and not survival. If this blazer had shoulder pads, I’d be power dressing my way back to 1989.
The first man sits down in front of me, smiling as awkwardly as I am. If this was a business meeting, I’d be far less tense, but I’m not sitting across from a client asking him what the last book he read was, or if he has any siblings.
‘Stan,’ he says, pointing to his own name badge. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Stan must be early fifties, though his eyebags make me think he had a tough paper round as a child. Right off the bat, he’s not my type: gold jewellery, skinny jeans that are visibly cutting him in half and a matching denim jacket. However, the way he’s unabashedly eyeing up Miss Red Dress, I can tell I’m probably not his type either. He could at least pretend to be interested.
His gaze eventually returns to me. ‘It’s all right in here, innit?’ he comments before taking a swig from his giant beer stein. ‘Those Germans know how to pull a pint. Shame about all the other stuff.’
I pause, tempted to ask exactly what he means by that, but ultimately let it slide, choosing not to spend the last two minutes of our time discussing the Second World War.
‘Yeah, they do a nice Riesling,’ I reply. ‘I’m not usually a—’
‘Where’s that accent from then? You Scotch?’
Scotch? If my Scottish friend Nicola heard this, she’d strangle him with his own gold chain. His eyes lock on to the red dress again. I frown.
‘Scottish? No, I’m from Whitby originally but I’ve lived in—’
‘Ah,oop north,’ he interrupts, in the worst attempt at a Yorkshire accent I’ve ever heard. ‘I’ve never dated a northernlass.’
That’s because we have taste, Stanley.
I take a large gulp of wine before I continue. ‘I’ve lived in London for years, so my accent probably isn’t as strong as it—’
‘Hackney born and bred,’ he declares, interrupting me for the third time. ‘Two kids, live with their mum. She got the house.’
‘Good for her,’ I mutter, under my breath. ‘How old are your kids?’
‘Sixteen and eighteen. How many you got?’ Christ, now he’s practically turned his chair to face that poor woman. I feel sorry that it’s her turn next but delighted that our chat is almost over.
‘Six kids by seven different fathers,’ I reply, aware that he’s not even listening. ‘Good kids. They wrote to me every week when I got sent down for armed robbery.’
‘Mmm-hmm.’
‘And arson.’
‘Right.’
‘Oh, and murder. A big one.’
The sound of the bell ringing cuts me off before I claim responsibility for the Great Plague of London in 1665. We get thirty seconds to fill in our cards before a second bell rings and the men move on.
After scribbling, Stan nods at me and stands up, practically elbowing the man leaving the table beside us. Unsurprisingly I tick ‘no’ and wait for my second date, a man who looks like he’s been made using AI filters.
‘Nice to meet you, I’m Jasper.’
I want to touch his face and see if he glitches. Even with the age range of thirty-seven to fifty-five, it’s hard to tell exactly how old he is. He has a sprinkling of grey hair but could easily pass for mid-thirties whereas, at forty-five, I could easily pass for forty-four.
