Our unlucky-in-love girl goes crazy for the heat and ends up on a date with a sick doctor

Along with the rest of Britain, I went bonkers the second the sun came out this week.

Delirious with expectation, I shaved my legs on Wednesday and dug out my wedges from the back of the cupboard.

I wore a skirt which showed off my actual legs in all their scarred and pasty glory.

But then I realised nobody but work colleagues would see them so I fired up Hinge.

And this is where online dating is fantastic – like the Amazon Prime of sexy time, I could just order myself a date for that night.

Shameless, I liked a buttload of guys whose photos I barely looked at.

It was a right-swipe frenzy – which reaped rewards within a matter of minutes.

Of my four matches, I best liked the look of Wes, an Aussie doctor.

Deciding candour was best I messaged him: “Hi Wes, fancy a drink in the sunshine tonight?”

While I waited I matched with four more blokes and sent them the same message, before Wes replied an hour later: “Sure! I’ve had a sh*tty cold but think I’m on the mend. 6.30 OK for you?”

Hmm, germy lurgy guys aren’t my go-to for a hot night out but I like the look of him.

What the hell . . . let’s do this. Within minutes of meeting, it is clear Wes really isn’t on the mend.

Little beads of sweat line his forehead, his eyes look glazed and his nose is red.

I long to turn him round and pop him on the first tube home.

He kisses me hello on the cheek (dammit, now I’ll get plague face too) and we sit at a table outside the pub.

All around us there’s the giddy buzz of Brits kidding themselves they’re on holiday in the Med.

Yet Wes looks close to death. I become mesmerised by the sweat patches slowly mushrooming their way across his blue shirt.

“So dell me abou yourself,” Wes says in what is probably quite a sexy drawl usually.

We chat about work, family . . .  and I try to ignore the revolting snot rag he keeps retrieving from his pocket to dab his nose.

A plate of nachos arrives – if I’m not getting sex tonight, you can be damn sure I’m eating.

Giving up on ‘my best self’, I reach out to grab a handful.

And at that moment, Wes’ traitorous schnoz finally undoes him – without warning, he sneezes.

A tiny drop of snot lands not just on the cheesy nachos but on my outstretched hand.
So much for (early) summer lovin’.

  • GOT a question, suggestion or even dating advice for Tinders? Email her at tinderella@the-sun.co.uk.

Source: Read Full Article