The Single Girl: How I oh-so-coolly handled a Stage Five Clinger

I am The Single Girl, and this is my column. Every week you’ll find another warts and all story from my dating life. Learn more about me here or just carry on reading!

Look, call me cold, but I found it hard — as he stood there on my doorstep, in a pair of dilapidated moccies at 2am — to credit the apparently endless tears rolling down his cheeks as entirely sincere.

My first date with Seb had been a quite unblemished triumph: He had suggested an excellent bar, we had enjoyed effortless conversation and the kiss at the end of the evening had been adorably, almost laughably, chaste.

However, the warning signs were quick to follow: First came the Bulk Follow. The morning after our date I woke up to notifications from, and I’m not joking, Facebook, Twitter, Snapchat, Insta, Linkedin and, believe it or not, Pinterest (it was my understanding that there was one heterosexual man on Pinterest, and if you found him you won Pinterest?), asking for, or informing me of, Seb’s followership.

At the time, I decided to find this adorable, overruling my gut which was simultaneously whispering ‘Paaaaatrick Baaaateman‘.

We’d agreed a second date at the end of our first for Sunday: Ice skating — his suggestion. And at Melbourne’s Ice House I got my second batch of clues — what, in retrospect, probably amounted to conclusive evidence — as to Seb’s clinger nature.

The thing is I can skate. I did a few years of figure skating in my early teens and after a couple of moments on the ice it all comes flooding back and off I glide. Seb, on the other hand, couldn’t skate. I was only able to complete a couple of frustrating minutes by his side as he waddled round holding on to the edge like a arthritic grandma, before venturing off alone to enjoy a few laps.

His face when I returned was a mask of haughty affront. “You alright?” I offered.
“No, not really, I can’t do this. And you, clearly, can’t be bothered to teach me.”

Seb, pls.

After skating, we went to a bar, and things got very much back on track. The chemistry from the first date reappeared and soon we were doing some exceptional canoodling in a quiet, steamy corner.

Waking the next morning, I regretted momentarily not asking him in. A feeling that was quickly obliterated by sight of *seven* texts from him waiting on my phone.

I’m confident that had you been there my gut’s screams of “Bateman, Bateman, Bateman” would’ve be audible even to you.

And the texts kept coming. There were lots, and they were long. I genuinely wondered how it was possible for him to maintain a job and still devote the time and energy it was clearly taking him to compose the various Russian novels he was iMessaging me.

Gradually my responses dwindled from single lines to single words to random emojis to silence. And still they kept coming:

“Just with a few mates chatting about plans for snow this year? You ski? Fancy it? Long weekend at the start of August. Looks like it’s going to be best snow for years. We can snuggle up in a log cabin and drink hot coco together! Sound good?”

I don’t ski.

I should’ve gone to ground. I know that now. But hindsight is always 20/20. I passively agreed to dinner. Just to type those words hurts. Dinner!? Din-saster more like.

His first meaningful words of the evening? “My mother thinks you’re very pretty.”

I nodded. I needed to move the conversation on immediately. He was gearing up to explain, his mouth opened. “How’s work going? Busy?” I all but shouted.

“…She thinks you’re just my type.” My phone rang. And never, ever, ever have I been so happy to see my boss’s name.

“Sorry, it’s my boss. I’ve got to take this,” I said scrambling to my feet.
“Thank you!” I answered, quite involuntarily.
“What a revoltingly obsequious way to answer the phone,” said my boss.
“Sorry, you saved me, I’m quite sure I’m on a date with Patrick Bateman,”
“Whether you’re dating a serial killer or not is frankly towards the very bottom of the questions I currently need answering, the new account appears not to…”

In short, there’d been a major fuck up at work and I needed to be in the office 20 minutes ago.

I felt bad having to leave. Even a Stage Five Clinger doesn’t deserve to be ditched mid-date. But I was apologetic in the extreme and sent a volley of further apologies in the cab en-route to the city.

A couple of days passed and it seemed to me Seb and I had entered a winding down phase. Over the course of a couple of days he made suggestions, I consistently deflected them with excuses, hoping he’d get the picture.

And then *ring*…

And suddenly here he is. On my doorstep crying.

“You were it! Can’t you see we’re perfect for each other.”
“I’m not. We’re not.”
“You’re so heartless.”
“We’ve been on two dates.”
“Three dates!”
“That couldn’t have been more than a twenieth of a date.”
“You’re so funny! I love that about you.”
At this point I closed the door. He whimpered there for a while and then I heard him slope away.

A text came a week later, apologising. He’d been stressed out recently. Sorry I’d been caught up in it. Hoped we could be friends. A drink maybe? Next week?

Bless him. Blocked.

More from The Single Girl:

Welcome to my dating world 

How I oh-so-coolly handled a stage five clinger

A dishy new colleague wants me but I want more