Freedom fighter

I have been asked to compromise on my journalistic principles to secure a date. And it wasn't a hard decision.

Let me explain. My best mate runs an outdoors-adventure company (will4adventure.com), and last Saturday, I found myself walking through the Peak District with 20 other people. The group was predominantly single women, none of whom I had met before.

So there I was, trying not to get blown over by the gale-force wind, when someone asked me what I did for a living. When I told her was a journalist, she asked: 'You don't write that infamous blog, do you?'

A little taken aback (but more than a tad proud, at the same time), I said that I write four blogs. It was quickly established that the 'infamous' blog is what you are reading at the moment, and that at least two other members of the group were also regular readers.

Anyway, that evening in the pub, with so many single people in their 30s and early-40s, and the drink flowing, the conversation inevitably turned to dating. It transpired that two of the three couples round the table had met online and that Matilda (the woman who had mentioned the blog) and myself were regular internet daters.

Our experiences of cyberdating were very different. Matilda had been on a few dates that had not really worked out, whereas I can't even get to that stage. Having net never met a woman who dated online (apart from on a date), I was keen to find out how many emails she received, in an attempt to understand why I couldn't elicit a reply.

There was nothing for it but to give an example. So I detailed the email I had sent to Lynsey (see 30/09), whose profile started that short-haired women have more fun and that she was looking for someone with whom to share her hair products. I began my email to her: 'I thought I'd drop you a line because I can't believe the price of L'Oréal Fibre Paste these days and am desperately looking for someone to share the cost.' The rest of the email was fairly straight, with a couple of cheeky bits thrown in.

No sooner had I finished telling the story than Matilda's mate (an attractive woman who said she had never tried internet dating) snapped: 'W***er!' I was taken aback at the vehemence of her comment. 'If I had received that email, I'd have said you were taking the piss,' she said. I tried to explain that I was just reacting to the first line of Lynsey's profile. She had tried to make her profile stand out from the norm, while I had done the same with my reply. Lynsey had said she was looking for a cheeky bloke and I think my email proved that I was. It also proved that I had read her profile, rather than sending out a formulaic email that could apply to any woman on the website.

The other four people in the conversation were spilt 50:50. My best mate and his wife (who had met online) didn't think the email was appropriate, although they failed to give a reason. A single bloke in his mid-40s and Matilda thought it was perfect. Matilda's mate calmed down slightly, but was adamant that I was taking the mickey. I just couldn't see her point, although it's obviously a valid one, because 90% of my emails are ignored. The fact is that I'm a cheeky bloke and my sense of humour is my USP. Might as well start as I mean to go on, rather than pretend to be somebody that I'm not.

Matilda's mate went to bed, leaving Matilda and I to have a good chat. Other members of the group gradually retired to their various B&Bs and campsites, leaving just the two of us. We moved from the restaurant table to the bar - ironically to the seat where I last pulled (see 04/12/08). The conversation was easy and I had Matilda in stitches - she really 'got' me. And she was quite cheeky, which I like.

At 23.20, I had a big decision to make. I was staying at the youth hostel, which shut for the night at 23.30. I knew I would have huge problems getting in if I broke this curfew. But sitting there having a laugh with Matilda, it was a no-brainer, even if he body language was alternating between flirtatious to arms tightly crossed. Last orders came and went and we left. By now my mind was on whether I would be sleeping on the hostel doorstep, so I failed to suggest going for a drink elsewhere.

I said goodnight to Matilda (with hindsight, I should have walked her right to the door of her B&B and given her a little peck) and walked to the hostel. I banged on the door for about 20 minutes, but it was evident that nobody was going to answer. It then began to rain. After exploring the outside of the large building, I eventually located an open window. Fortunately, it was only about four feet off the ground. Unfortunately, it was about the size of my hips and there was an eight foot drop on the other side. But needs must, so I stripped off my sweater and shirt, threw them inside and hoisted myself up and head first through the aperture. I lay horizontal for ages, with my torso in the dry and my legs in the rain, looking for a way to avoid crashing to the concrete floor. But thanks to a wide windowsill, a conveniently placed wall and a flexibility and strength that belied my age, I managed to secure a safe passage to the floor. I walked back to my room, pretty pleased with myself on all fronts.

The next day, apart from recounting the story of my hostel break-in, I never said a word to Matilda. We said goodbye, parting with a comment that we would probably bump into each other again one day. So imagine my surprise (and pleasure) when I logged on to my computer the following evening, to find a very sweet email from Matilda saying that she had really enjoyed meeting me and suggesting we meet up in town one evening - on the condition that I didn't write about her.

So that's the story so far. It may be the end of the story, if Matilda is true to her word. But I believe that maintaining the freedom of the press in Britain is far more important than me getting my leg over.