**How Timothy Tried to Find a Bride on a Dating Site at 50**
Timothy James Whitaker, 50 years old, single, a greying man who prided himself on what he called his “superior intellect” and rather peculiar charm, sat in his worn-out armchair in his one-bedroom flat on the outskirts of Manchester, absently stroking his cat, Whiskers. The same Whiskers who, judging by his unimpressed stare and restless twitching tail, had long wanted to escape but stayed out of pity. Timothy’s life had been on a downward slope for years. No job, no prospects, and the flat’s décor consisted of a chipped sideboard, a sagging sofa, and a rug that barely covered the ugly crack in the floor.
But today, fate seemed to whisper in his ear. Sipping cheap tea from a stained mug, Timothy decided it was time to find happiness—not some abstract idea of it, but the real deal: a wealthy, beautiful woman. His personal formula for success was simple: “Give me a well-off wife, and I’ll restore my dignity.” Why bother with a job when he could fast-track to a life of home-cooked meals, warmth, and top-notch appliances?
He fired up his battered laptop—a salvage from a skip—and logged onto a popular dating site, crafting his profile with artistic liberties. His profile picture wasn’t *actually* him but a stock photo of a chiselled, impeccably dressed businessman holding the latest iPhone. The bio read:
*Name: Timothy Whitaker.
Age: 38.
Occupation: Entrepreneur, business owner.
Hobbies: Yachting, gourmet cooking (a true culinary maestro!), reading classics.
Seeking: Serious relationship with an elegant, slender woman. Only financially independent women need apply.*
“Bloody brilliant,” Timothy muttered to himself. “This’ll have them lining up.”
And line up they did—just not the women he’d hoped for. Instead of polished, moneyed beauties, his inbox filled with messages from women whose idea of “comfortable” meant knitting scarves, a trio of cats, and a till job at Tesco. “No, love, not for me,” he grumbled, ignoring them. “I want a goddess with a trust fund.”
Then came the game-changer. Marina, 41, messaged him—a stunning brunette in a tailored suit, smiling like she’d just stepped off a magazine cover. “There’s something about her,” Timothy mused. “Could she be The One?”
*Marina:* Hi, Timothy! Your profile caught my eye. Do you really enjoy gourmet cooking?
*Timothy:* Absolutely! Creating masterpieces is my passion. Ever tried making ratatouille? It’s pure culinary bliss. (*He sipped weak tea, nibbling a stale crust.*)
An hour later, she agreed to meet. Success! Timothy threw himself into preparations: dusted off his mothballed wedding guest suit (last worn in ’95), shaved, and sprinkled talcum powder on his thinning hair for extra volume. They arranged to meet at a cosy café.
He arrived ten minutes early—by bus—and waited by the window. Marina was every bit as glamorous as her photos: poised, manicured, effortlessly elegant.
“Pleasure to meet you, Timothy,” she said, then hesitated. “You look… different. Than in your photo.”
Timothy had rehearsed this. “Ah, cameras! Always distorting me. In person, I’ve got *far* more… presence.”
Marina’s polite smile didn’t reach her eyes. Conversation limped along. His vague ramblings about “start-ups” and “quiet-phase investments” only deepened her scepticism.
Desperate, Timothy leaned in. “Marina, we’re a perfect match. You’re exquisite—I’d cook, clean, *anything*. You’d be my queen!”
She set down her tea, coldly replying, “Timothy, what exactly makes you think you’re on *my* level?”
The words stung. Mumbling about “shallow harpies,” he stormed out—without paying.
A week of similar disasters followed. The crowning humiliation was Margot, 37, who arched a brow when he suggested splitting the bill. “Business owner, you said?”
“All reinvested!” he fibbed. She left, stifling laughter.
By month’s end, Timothy faced the truth: wealthy women weren’t fooled. The injustice! He’d even *showered* for these dates!
Bitterness took hold. He trolled women online, sniping under glamorous photos: “Gold-digger much? Try valuing *character*!”
A fashion influencer’s post? “All that makeup won’t land you a husband.”
A fitness page? “Who’d want a woman built like a bloke?”
No one replied. Just blocks.
Only Whiskers watched, meowing softly as if to say, “Maybe just… get a job?”
Timothy sighed. Maybe happiness wasn’t yachts and ratatouille. Maybe it was a quiet life with a loyal cat. Who knew?
(*Lesson learned: Fabricated grandeur fools no one—least of all yourself.*)
