Timothy Peter Armitage, a 50-year-old bachelor with silvering hair and what he liked to call a “sharp intellect and unconventional charm,” sat in his worn-out armchair in his one-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Birmingham, absently stroking his tabby cat, Whiskers. Whiskers, judging by his permanently unimpressed expression and the way he flicked his tail, had long considered abandoning his owner but stayed out of sheer pity. Timothy’s life had been on a downward slope for years. No job, no prospects, and his flat’s decor consisted of a battered sideboard, a threadbare sofa, and a rug strategically placed to hide a monstrous crack in the floor.
But today, fate stirred. Sipping cheap teabag brew, Timothy suddenly decided it was time to chase happiness—not the abstract kind, but the very tangible sort: a wealthy, beautiful wife. His personal success formula was simple: “Find a well-off woman, and dignity will follow.” Getting a job had proven impossible, so why not skip straight to the good life—home-cooked meals, warmth, and top-tier appliances?
He fired up his ancient laptop, salvaged years ago from a skip, logged onto a popular dating site, and crafted a profile with creative flair. His main photo wasn’t of himself but a chiselled, tanned Adonis in a designer suit, lifting a gleaming iPhone—snatched from the internet. The bio read:
Name: Timothy Armitage.
Age: 38.
Occupation: Entrepreneur, business owner.
Hobbies: Yachting, gourmet cooking (self-taught maestro!), classic literature.
Seeking: Serious relationship with an attractive, slender woman. Financially independent partners only—no gold-diggers.
“Blimey, I’m quite the catch,” Timothy mused smugly. “The messages will flood in now.”
And flood they did—just not from the women he’d imagined. Instead of polished, high-earning beauties, his inbox filled with replies from cat-loving, scarf-knitting supermarket cashiers. “No, no, my dears,” Timothy muttered, ignoring them. “I need a goddess with a trust fund.”
Then came the game-changer: Marina, 41. Her photo showed a striking brunette with a million-pound smile, dressed in a sleek tailored suit. “There’s something about her,” Timothy thought. “Could she be the one?”
“Timothy, hello! Your profile is intriguing. Do you really cook gourmet meals?”
“Absolutely! Creating culinary masterpieces is my passion. Ever tried a flawless beef Wellington? Pure bliss,” he typed, nibbling a stale crust of bread.
An hour later, Marina agreed to meet. Victory! Timothy sprang into action: he dusted off his ancient wedding guest suit (last worn in ’95), shaved patchy stubble, and dabbed talcum powder on his thinning hair for extra volume. They arranged to meet at a quaint café.
He arrived ten minutes early (via bus) and claimed a window seat. Marina was even more stunning in person—sleek, manicured, effortlessly elegant.
“Hello, Timothy,” she said warmly—then paused, squinting. “You look… rather different from your photo.”
Timothy was ready. “Ah, cameras! They never do me justice. Real life adds… erm, character.”
“I see,” she replied, skepticism creeping into her tone.
Conversation sputtered. His vague ramblings about “startups” and “silent-phase investments” only made her frown.
“What exactly *is* your business?” she pressed.
“Complex, really. High-level ventures—best not to bore you.”
She nodded, but her eyes darted toward the exit.
Desperate, Timothy blurted, “Marina, we’re perfect together. You’re elegant, refined—I’d cook, clean, be your house-husband! You’d be my queen!”
Marina set down her teacup. “Timothy, forgive me, but this is absurd. What makes you think you’d fit into *my* lifestyle?”
The words stung. Mumbling about “shallow harpies” and “heartless ice queens,” he stormed out—without paying.
A week and three failed dates later, Timothy hit rock bottom. The final blow? Margot, 37, who smirked when he suggested splitting the bill. “You’re a *business owner*?” she’d scoffed before leaving, laughing into her cocktail.
By month’s end, Timothy accepted the bitter truth: wealthy women weren’t falling for him. Unfair! He’d even showered before dates—what more did they want?
Then came the dark turn. Bitter and bruised, he lurched into online spite, trolling women’s profiles. Under glamorous selfies: “Only after a sugar daddy, eh? Try valuing *character*!” On a fashion blogger’s post: “Why bother with makeup? Nobody’s marrying *that*.” A fitness influencer’s squats earned his sneer: “Men prefer femininity, not muscles.”
Nobody replied. Just blocks—endless blocks.
Only Whiskers offered feedback, meowing pointedly: *”Ever considered… a job?”*
Timothy stared into space. Maybe happiness wasn’t yachts and Wellingtons. Maybe it was a quiet life with a loyal cat. Who knew?
