Dozed off, Stood up and then had the nerve to ask for cash!

I’m back babes! Welcome to Instalment 2. Sorry for the delay, life decided to throw adult responsibilities at me (rude) but trust me, this one is worth the wait. Strap in because it’s a doozie! Like, the kind of story that makes your best friend clutch their wine glass and scream, “GIRL, NO.”

So let’s call him Sleeping NOT Beauty.

Things were looking promising. We matched, we vibed, we had that effortless banter where you’re like “Wow, maybe dating isn’t a complete bin fire!” Texting was fun, flirty, natural. Three weeks in, we finally decide on a date… His car is “broken” (allegedly). Red flag #1? Probably! But me being the eternal optimist with zero survival instincts say, No worries, I’ll drive.

Drive where, you ask? Oh, just 90 minutes away, Ninety, as in a full-length feature film of me in the car, this is not dating, this is a long-haul trucking route. But that’s okay, right? he’s attentive, communicative, all the green flags… you know, the exact setup for a red flag ambush.

Date day arrives, I spend an obscene amount of time getting ready we’re talking Olympic-level glam. I text him On my way! Silence, No biggie, maybe he’s ironing his socks? WRONG! Forty minutes into my journey, he finally texts (not calls, even though he is fully aware I’m driving) “Hey, sorry just woke up. Think I’m getting a cold, can we rearrange?”

Sir. I have been texting you all morning, and yet there was no mention that you had the plague! The only thing contagious here is your laziness, But of course, what do I do? The polite, supportive thing No worries, feel better soon! Then I drive myself to Starbucks to drown my sorrows in a latte and question my life choices.

This, friends, should’ve been the end, but apparently my toxic trait is collecting red flags like they are rare Pokémon cards.

We reschedule, he hypes me up all day “Can’t wait to see you, beautiful!” His car is still broken (this should shock absolutely no one), so I saddle up for another two-hour drive telling myself at this point, I should invoice him for diesel.

I text him to tell him I’m leaving now! He replies: Fab, see you soon lovely. Fantastic right? Well… when I get there? Radio silence. I text. Nothing. I call. Nothing. I RING HIS DOORBELL LIKE A POSTMAN WITH A VENGEANCE. Nothing. Just as I’m about to reverse dramatically off his drive, he calls me: “Where are you?”

WHERE AM I? Sir, I am OUTSIDE your house on your literal doorstep, about five seconds away from looking like a stalker in a bad true crime podcast. His excuse? He was sleeping. AGAIN! At this point, I’m convinced he is either a hibernating bear, a narcoleptic toddler, or just allergic to commitment.

And yet, YET instead of driving home with my dignity somewhat intact, I let him invite me in for a cup of tea. Because my self-respect had apparently filed for annual leave. The house? Nice, tidy, appliances working. Great. The man himself? Completely different from the one I had been texting. Lazy, flat energy, like someone replaced his personality with a potato. As we’re chatting, his eyelids start to droop. AND THEN… he FALLS ASLEEP. Mid-conversation. Full toddler nap on the sofa while I’m sitting there like a bored babysitter.

At this point, I decide I would rather drive two hours home listening to sad girl playlists than sit there watching him drool. I muster what’s left of my dignity and leave.

But wait! He messages later. Apologies galore, “I’m not usually like this,” blah blah. And do I block him? Of course not. Because clearly, I’m writing a book called How to Ignore Red Flags 101.

We keep talking, He cancels plans three more times. Then the cherry on top he asks me for £50 for fuel. This man who naps for a living, stood me up twice, and fell asleep mid-sentence… wants ME to fund his little road trip, excuse me SIR I thought the car was broken… apparently not!

And yet again, I didn’t block him immediately. My brain? Mashed potato. My self-respect? Nonexistent. Mr. Spirit animal is a sloth? Winning.

The moral of this story girls! If a man ever asks you for money after standing you up and using you as his emotional pillow pet, you don’t just block him. You block him, his mum, his goldfish, and any future descendants.

So here I am, leaving Sleeping NOT Beauty behind, with zero hope that a decent man exists in 2025. Honestly, at this point, I might just start dating myself, at least I’d show up on time.