The cost of living crisis has ruined our love lives

I’ll get these,” I told my date cheerily, indicating the two glasses of wine we’d ordered at the bar. Medium glasses, I should add. Of house wine. From a standard – not gastro – pub. I would quickly come to regret making such a recklessly generous offer.

“That’ll be £21,” said the barman – without the merest hint of a smile to suggest that this was his idea of a rather tasteless joke. It took every ounce of self-restraint not to gasp, hand fluttering to my chest, and shriek “I beg your pardon?” in a tone shrill enough to shatter glass. It was, after all, a first date. We were at least four rendezvous away from me feeling comfortable enough to become the physical manifestation of my mother.

“Sure – £21? Of course. Right you are. No problem.”

It was the week before payday. My brain stirred into action, firing off rapid strings of mental arithmetic: he would buy me back a drink, presumably, so we could stay for one more after this, but I