Timothy Peter Harrison, a 50-year-old bachelor with greying hair and what he liked to call “high intellect and a rather unique charm,” sat in his worn-out armchair in his tiny flat on the outskirts of London, absentmindedly stroking his cat, Whiskers. The same Whiskers whose smug expression and aloof demeanour suggested he’d long wanted to escape but stayed out of sheer pity. Life hadn’t been kind to Timothy lately—no job, no prospects, and a flat furnished only with a battered sideboard, a threadbare sofa, and a tatty rug draped over a hideous crack in the floor.
But that evening, fate nudged him. Sipping a weak cup of supermarket tea, Timothy decided it was time to chase happiness. Not some vague ideal, but the real deal—a wealthy, beautiful woman. After all, his personal motto was: “Give me a well-off wife, and I’ll reclaim my dignity.” Why bother with a job when he could skip straight to the good life—home-cooked meals, warmth, and top-of-the-range appliances?
He fired up the laptop he’d once salvaged from a skip, logged onto a popular dating site, and crafted a profile with a generous dose of imagination. For his main photo, he didn’t use his own face. Instead, he borrowed a dashing image of a chiselled Adonis in a sharp suit, clutching the latest iPhone. The caption read:
*Name:* Timothy Harrison.
*Age:* 38.
*Occupation:* Entrepreneur, business owner.
*Hobbies:* Yachting, gourmet cooking (a culinary maestro!), reading classic literature.
*Looking for:* A serious relationship with an elegant, slender woman. Must be financially independent—no gold-diggers.
“Blimey, I’m quite the catch,” Timothy mused smugly. “The messages will flood in now.”
And flood in they did—just not from the glamorous, high-flying women he’d imagined. Instead, his inbox filled with replies from women for whom “financial independence” meant three cats, a knitted scarf, and a till job at Tesco. “Sorry, loves, not quite what I’m after,” Timothy muttered, ignoring them. “I need a goddess with a trust fund.”
Then came the game-changer. Marina, 41, messaged him. Her photo showed a stunning brunette with a million-pound smile, dressed in sleek business attire. “There’s something about her,” Timothy thought. “Could she be the one?”
*Marina:* “Timothy, hello! Interesting profile. Do you really cook gourmet meals?”
*Timothy:* “Absolutely! Whipping up masterpieces is my passion. Ever tried a proper ratatouille? Pure heaven,” he replied, gulping down his lukewarm tea and stale bread crust.
An hour of chat later, Marina agreed to meet. Success! Timothy sprang into action: he dusted off the suit he’d last worn to his brother’s wedding in ’95, shaved his patchy stubble, and powdered his thinning hair to fake thickness. They arranged to meet at a cosy café.
He arrived ten minutes early (via bus) and nabbed a window table. Marina was every bit as polished as her photo—slim, manicured, effortlessly elegant.
*Marina:* “Hello, Timothy,” she greeted warmly, but after a closer look, her smile faltered. “You look… erm… quite different from your picture.”
Timothy had rehearsed this:
*Timothy:* “Oh, you know how cameras are! Always distorting things. In person, I’m far more… dynamic.”
*Marina:* “Right,” she said, eyeing him dubiously.
The conversation limped along. His vague ramblings about “business ventures” only confused her.
*Marina:* “What exactly do you do?”
*Timothy:* “It’s complex. Start-ups, investments… We’re in a ‘quiet growth phase’.”
She nodded, but her eyes screamed escape.
Panicking, Timothy blurted:
*Timothy:* “Marina, I think we’re perfect together. You’re stunning, refined—I’d do anything for you! Cook, clean, be your househusband. You’d be my queen!”
*Marina:* “Timothy, sorry, but this is… odd. What makes you think you’d fit into my lifestyle?”
The words stung. Mumbling about “rude snobs” and “heartless women,” he stormed out without paying.
Over the next week, three more dates ended similarly. The worst was with Margaret, 37, who saw through him instantly.
*Margaret:* “You claim to own a business. Why suggest splitting the bill?”
*Timothy:* “Er—reinvesting profits!”
She left, barely suppressing laughter.
By month’s end, Timothy accepted the hard truth: wealthy women weren’t interested. The injustice! He’d even showered before dates!
Bitter and resentful, he took to social media, lashing out. Under photos of glamorous women: “Only after rich blokes, eh? Try valuing *character*!”
On a fashion influencer’s post: “Why bother with makeup? No one’s marrying you anyway.”
Beneath a fitness model’s video: “Men are terrified of your muscles.”
Yet no one replied—just blocks.
Only Whiskers watched him, meowing softly, as if to say, “Maybe just get a job?”
Timothy began to wonder… Perhaps happiness wasn’t yachts or ratatouille, but a quiet life with a loyal cat. Who knew?
