Let me paint you a picture… a free-spirited, shaggy-haired musician who looked like Kurt Cobain, complete with that whole tortured-artist vibe that also screams, ‘I don’t believe in taxes’.

Not my usual type, so I was especially excited to explore something new.

We made plans for a simple school-night date - nothing wild, just a mellow evening with light conversation and one drink, maybe two.

I arrive on time, looking cute-casual with a sprinkle of a ‘maybe he’ll write a song about me’ kind of vibe.

I sit. I wait. Then I get the text: “Hey, sorry, but I’ll be about 45 minutes late.”

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATE.

What was he doing? Re-applying his black nail polish? Perfecting his ‘I’m not trying too hard’ eyeliner? …and no, they aren’t just jokes.

Apparently, Uber was to blame for running him late. Why didn’t he just get in his car and drive to me? Curious, I ask when he arrives.

“Yeah, well, I did have a car, but I lent it to my ex… and she sold it.”

…I follow up: “Ok… but you have a license though, right?”

“Yeah… technically. But, it expired and I just didn’t renew it.”

So, not technically. He has a license the same way I have a gym membership (in theory).

I press further. “So, how do you get around then?”

“The bus.”

Of course.,, because nothing screams rockstar rebel like a metro card.

At this point I’m wondering if he even makes money doing music, so I ask about his gigs. Does he play pubs? Maybe even a wedding band side hustle? Corporate Christmas parties with drunk dads doing the worm?

Nope. He plays once a year, exclusively for his fans.

All originals.
No covers.
No actual gigs.
No actual income.

At this point, I’m internally spiraling, and don’t know if I should be paying for our drinks, or ordering (and pity paying) for his next Uber.

Finally, I ask where he lives. He tells me he lives in his mate’s basement.

Not a cute, Pinterest-renovated basement. Not a "finished with fairy lights" basement. No.
A lair.
No kitchen.
No toilet.
Just musician posters and mildew.

At this point, I realised this was not a date. This was a playdate. With a grown man whose idea of stability is a beanbag, a half-used bottle of 3-in-1 shampoo and empty pizza boxes.

And yet… he was charming.

Kurt Cobain’s lookalike may not have a vehicle, a gig schedule, or functional housing, but he did have charisma, perfectly tousled hair, and a confident air that, tragically, still does it for me. After all, who doesn’t love some eye candy?!

He’s not a bad guy.
He’s just… a 12-year-old trapped in a 42-year-old’s body.
A man-child with a dream and zero life skills.

Would I see him again? No.
Would I suggest he learn how to tell time and renew his license? Definitely.

Godspeed, girlies. And bring snacks, in case your date also starts an hour late.