I’ve mastered the art of the 25-minute date

I’M back on Tinder, but this time it’s Tinder 2.0. I’ve changed my attitude for a start — I’m trying to be less shallow and talk to different types of men, not just ones with dogs and beards. I also have a new age limit, 35-plus only, because dating 27-year-olds was beginning to make me feel like Bernie Ecclestone. I’ve also dropped the sarcasm, so no more gems like this: Him: Heyyyyyy baby…when we going to meet up? Me: I’m free the twelfth of never. After some swiping, I match with a man called Julian, who I would normally eliminate based upon his first name.

But this is Tinder 2.0, so I decide Julian deserves a go, despite having major reservations about his love of loafers (“over 20 pairs”) and the fact that he seems to think he is a mod and takes pictures perched on other people’s Vespas.

Before I go to meet Julian at the pub, he has picked (a horrid city pub where they charge £7 for a glass of wine and play the Macarena), I have a little pep talk from my friend.

“Do not feel obliged to stay for more than one drink if you don’t like him,” she says. I repeat this mantra in my head on my way to meet him until it has been fully absorbed.

When I’m almost there, he texts to say: “Get yourself a drink on the way in, I’m right at the back.” As I put my bags down and apologise for being five minutes late (English people, remember) he tells me to “calm down” — the two words in the English language which have the exact opposite effect on me every time.

Julian proceeds to tell me about his travel blog, his ex-girlfriend (who he nicknamed ‘the boiler’) and, finally, his property portfolio. I look at my watch, see that 25 minutes have elapsed, down my wine and wish Julian the best of luck with his loafers.