It’s 7.30pm on a Saturday night, and I’m on my first date with Jack*, a 29-year-old finance executive.
Jack and I have only met once at a mutual friend’s party, where we exchanged contacts. We’ve been casually texting back and forth since, but the banter is nothing much to write home about (that should have been my first warning).
All is well for the first few minutes as we settle in at a cosy Japanese restaurant nestled in Amoy Street, get the small talk out of the way, and order our main courses. And then: Jack begins recounting his dating life in painstaking detail. Starting with his “first real girlfriend who was chill, but it got quite boring after a while” when he was 18. As the night proceeds, the list grows longer. At one point, between his third “huge K-pop fan which, to be honest, wasn’t a big deal at the start, until it turned out she was maniacally obsessed” (this is not verbatim, of course, because I had tuned out by this point) and fourth situationship, I ask what he’s interested in doing in his free
