Liars, cheats and weirdos: A divorcee’s dating app diary

Cath halsall, 48 (below), runs her own marketing business and lives in Peterborough, Cambs. she tried tinder for six weeks and kept this diary of her experience. FINALLY I felt ready to dip my toe back into dating. Since my divorce nine years ago, my life has revolved around my 14year-old daughter, Sophie, and my business. But with my 50s approaching, I’m at an age when I’d like someone to cuddle up to at the end of the day.

I was aware of Tinder’s seedy reputation, but a couple of friends in their 40s swore by it, so I decided to give it a go. Here’s how I got on:

WEEK ONE

I MADE a profile by downloading the app to my phone and linking it to my Facebook account, then I chose some flattering pictures of myself.

To deter time-wasters, I tried to be as specific about what I was looking for in a man as possible: someone with a good sense of humour who would share my love of Eighties music.

As a more mature woman, I also made it plain I didn’t appreciate being called ‘babe’, ‘sweetie’, ‘princess’, ‘my lovely’, ‘cutie’, or ‘hun’ and that I was not in the market for one-night stands.

My phone was flooded with hundreds of men who matched my criteria — aged 40 to 55 and all within a 60-mile range.

I admit I was excited. All these men I could take my pick from! It felt like going shopping with no limit on my card. By the end of the first hour, I had swiped right — or approved — about 50 possibles who I liked the look of.

A few hours later, I got my first match — one of the men had liked me back.

Mike, a 49-year-old mechanic, cut straight to the chase. He pointed out that we were no more than a couple of minutes apart.

‘On my lunch break,’ he messaged. ‘Do you fancy meeting up for a bit of fun?’

I was horrified. I quickly ducked below the window and turned off my phone.

WEEK TWO

AFTER my alarming start, I decided I’d have to play detective to stay safe. So when supermuscled Dave popped up, saying he was a member of an elite Army regiment on a secret mission to the Middle East, I decided to do some digging.

I asked for his email address and used it to track down his IP address — the unique number that identifies the network on which an email is sent — and found that his message had come from Russia.

When I asked why, Dave’s profile instantly disappeared. Clearly, I was going to have to keep my wits about me.

WEEK THREE

THIS was getting depressing. When I first dated 30 years ago, we’d shyly share a warm Bacardi and coke and talk about Duran Duran. Today, there’s no innocence, no flirting, no finesse.

I began the week being ‘wooed’ by a ‘suitor’ who called himself Firm Hand. His profile picture showed a stool painted with the words: ‘The Naughty Spot.’ His ideal Tinder date, he revealed straightaway, was a ‘strict auntie’ to give him a ‘guiding hand’.

Then there was Mark, who wanted to meet me with ‘the wife’ — pictured with her face obscured, but not much else.

I felt sick. Was this really what dating had been reduced to? I suddenly felt very sorry for my daughter. Will she ever experience that thrill of eyes meeting across a crowded bar? I was two weeks and hundreds of swipes in, and I’d still not had a single, genuine date with an honest man. I felt like giving up.

WEEK FOUR

AS I kept swiping, it became clear that the more mature men of Tinder fall into a few distinct categories. There are the bachelors posing with cars or speed boats, the men wearing suits that varied in quality from Savile Row to Burton, but who all wanted to imply they were CEOs. Then there are the tattooed drinkers and smokers brigade, all pictured ‘down the pub’, and finally the sportsmen perched on high-spec bikes, spattered in mud on assault courses, or crossing marathon finishing lines. A man named Paul claimed to be an injured body builder, yet he seemed baffled when I decided to call his bluff by asking about the technical details of his diet plan. That conversation quickly fizzled out.

Spending a lonely old age in front of the TV began to seem rather inviting.

WEEK FIVE

OVER my time on Tinder, I found that the more I swiped, the more fussy I became. Soon, I started narrowing down my choices.

By a process of elimination, I realised my ideal man was a Paul Hollywood lookalike in a management position or running his own business.

The arbitrary way in which I started to dismiss men shocked me — especially when I realised there were thousands of people out there doing the exact same thing to me.

Is this what relationships have come to? Window shopping, reducing fellow humans to a number of physical attributes on which we reject or pursue them? It all feels so clinical and wrong.

I tried to strike up a conversation with every man I matched with, but half never even responded. Others ‘ghosted’ me — not returning messages after we’d exchanged a few pleasantaries.

After a while it didn’t even feel offensive or rude — it’s just the normal way to treat people on Tinder.

WEEK SIX

AT LAST, a date. Jonathan described himself as a divorced ex-policeman in his 50s who now worked in security.

Most attractive of all, he didn’t seem to be pretending to be something he wasn’t. So when he suggested meeting for a coffee, I thought why not.

However, as I sat sipping my latte in a nice dress waiting for him to turn up, I did wonder what I’d done.

I’d checked if the car park had CCTV in case he tried to abduct me. I’d also resolved to drive twice round town on the way home in case he followed me.

He turned out to be a perfectly nice chap who’d had a similar experience to me on Tinder. He’d grown tired of the double entendres about truncheons and handcuffs he’d get when he said he’d been in the police force.

But the spark wasn’t there and, as we said our goodbyes, I could see he felt the same way. So it’s back to the drawing board . . . or is it? To be honest, I don’t know if I have the energy.