A completely honest diary of a single 30-year-old man trying to find “the one” in this ridiculous, beautiful, impossible city By Freddie Harper, 30, graphic designer, originally from Bristol, currently renting a shoebox in Finsbury Park with a kettle that screams like a banshee.
The Current Stats (November 2025)
- Months single: 11
- Hinge likes sent: 1,847
- Actual dates: 37
- Second dates: 9
- Ghostings received: too many to count
- Times I’ve said “I’m just focusing on myself right now”: 1,200 (mostly to my mum)
Week in the life of a hopeful romantic who still believes
Monday
I wake up optimistic because it’s a new week. I update my Hinge prompts for the 47th time:
- “Two truths and a lie”: I’ve been to 28 countries / I can play Wonderwall on guitar / I once cried at a Lidl advert I swap my main photo for the one where I’m holding my mate’s dog (statistically +400% matches). By 9 pm I’ve matched with someone called Lara who “loves climbing and cold plunges.” I already hate myself for how excited I am.
Tuesday – First date (Lara, 29, climbing instructor)
We meet at Bar Lina in Soho. She’s even prettier in real life and laughs at my jokes within the first five minutes (green flag). We talk about travel, families, the fact neither of us can afford to buy in London before 2060. Two negronis in, she says, “I’m actually moving to Lisbon in three weeks for a job.” Of course she is. We still kiss goodbye under the tube sign. I walk home smiling like an idiot anyway.
Wednesday – The low point
I open Bumble and see my ex (the big one) has updated her profile with photos from the Iceland trip we were meant to take together. I eat an entire Domino’s by myself and text the lads group chat: “Is it over for us, boys?” Tom sends a voice note: “Mate, get off the apps for 24 hours and come gym tomorrow. We’ll fix you.” I fall asleep watching Love Is Blind and hate everyone on it.
Thursday – Operation Get Back Out There
The boys stage an intervention. Dev drags me to a night called “Soulmate Speed-Dating” above a pub in King’s Cross. I’m seated opposite twelve women for six minutes each. Highlights:
- Girl #4 tells me she breeds tarantulas. Hard pass.
- Girl #7 and I argue about whether pineapple belongs on pizza for the entire six minutes and nearly miss the bell.
- Girl #11 (Zoe) has the same sarcastic laugh as me and says her dream date is “a really long walk and then dumplings.” I write my real number on her scorecard with three exclamation marks.
Friday – Date #2 this week (Zoe, 28, copywriter)
We meet at 6 pm at Jolly Butchers in Stoke Newington (neutral territory). She’s wearing a green coat and Doc Martens and I immediately forget how to speak properly. We walk the entire length of Clissold Park talking about everything: worst Tinder dates, our parents’ divorces, the fact we both still own our childhood teddy bears. At 10 pm we end up at a tiny dumpling place in Hackney Wick. She steals my last prawn one and I decide I would happily die for her. We kiss outside the Overground station. It’s soft and slow and tastes like sesame oil and possibility. She texts before I’m even home: “Tonight was really, really lovely. Again soon?”
Saturday – The reality check
Zoe cancels Sunday plans because “something came up with work.” I spiral. I overthink. I draft 17 versions of a chill reply and send none of them. Instead I go for a solo pint at my local and end up chatting to an old guy called Dennis who’s been married 44 years. He says: “Son, when it’s right it’s easy. When it’s wrong you’ll tie yourself in knots. Stop knotting.” I write it in my Notes app like it’s gospel.
Sunday – Reset
I delete the apps. Just for a week. I go to the Columbia Road flower market by myself, buy tulips for no one, drink terrible coffee, and feel weirdly okay. I walk along the canal listening to Frank Ocean and realise I actually like my own company. I text Zoe: “No worries about today, hope work calms down. Here whenever you fancy dumplings again 🙂” She replies instantly with a voice note that makes me grin on a crowded 38 bus.
The truth, 30 dates deep
London is brutal. People leave, people ghost, people are “focusing on themselves,” people are always “moving to Lisbon.” But every now and then you sit across from someone who makes the whole ridiculous circus feel worth it. One proper laugh, one real kiss, one green coat in November, and suddenly you remember why you keep turning up.
I’m still single. I’m still hopeful. I still believe love lives somewhere between the Northern line delays and the £7 pints.
If you see me on the apps, be gentle. If you see me in real life, say hello. I’m the one with the tulips and the half-written love story in my pocket.
Freddie Finsbury Park, November 2025 Currently: cautiously optimistic, slightly bruised, entirely open.
