He picked me up. Took me to the zoo. Made it to a third date. And somehow still managed to become an unforgettable part of my dating history—for reasons I wish he hadn’t. This story is definitely up there on one of the worlds worst dates.
This one left a scar. A real emotional skid mark, if you will.
Picture it: me, somehow defying the laws of modern dating by making it to a third date. I know. I should’ve bought a lottery ticket. And what better way to celebrate this rare milestone than... the zoo! Penguins, giraffes, overpriced coffee—what more could a girl want? I was thriving. Peak wholesome vibes.
My date—let’s call him Sir Bathroom Banshee—picked me up like an actual adult. Bonus points. We drove to Whipsnade Zoo, had a lovely time, walked 10,000+ steps, and genuinely enjoyed each other's company without a single red flag in sight. I was thinking, Wow. A functioning man who also enjoys meerkats. This might be it.
Fast forward to the ride home. He’s gone a bit quiet, but I chalk it up to low blood sugar and heatstroke. We’d been out all day, and I too was on the brink of collapse. So, we pull up to mine, and he politely asks to use the bathroom. “Of course!” I chirp, unaware that I’m sending him into the very battleground that would end us.
He disappears upstairs, and within seconds—SECONDS—my house starts to shake. I’m talking full Jurassic Park water-glass moment. Something had gone terribly wrong...
Panic sets in. I freeze. What’s the protocol here? Do I knock? Do I yell through the door, “You good in there, champ?” Do I go full Florence Nightingale and offer a pack of wet wipes?
I do what any rational adult would do in this situation: fire off a panic text to the group chat and pretend everything’s fine by watching Netflix at a volume that violates noise pollution laws.
After ten very long minutes, he comes downstairs, pale as a ghost and looking like he’d aged 12 years. He blurts out, “I’m so, so, so sorry.” And honestly? I felt bad for him. It was clearly mortifying. Trying to lighten the mood, I laugh and say, “Don’t worry—shit happens.”
He gives a weak smile, thanks me, and leaves. I actually thought we might see each other again. Like, I was still on board at this point.
Then I went out for dinner with a friend and left the house for a few hours.
And here’s where the whole thing derailed.
I get home. I head upstairs and...
I open the bathroom door and get hit with an odour so toxic, I nearly lost consciousness. My eyes start watering, my throat closes up, and I swear one of my plants gave up and died on the spot.
The man had not cleaned up. Not flushed. Not even cracked open the window that stood one metre away from the toilet. Nothing. I was willing to move past the act itself. Truly. We’ve all had those moments. But the zero attempt at damage control? The total lack of bathroom accountability? Unforgivable.
If I ever annihilated someone else’s loo like that, I wouldn’t just clean—it would become my life’s purpose. I’d be in there with bleach, Febreze, holy water, and would probably regrout the tiles for good measure.
Moral of the story? Shit happens. But so does Cillit Bang. And a window. And basic decency
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