The most unhinged things I've done while single

Not all heroes wear capes. Some send their number to a strangers mum

The scene of the crime

Being single is fun, right up until it makes you completely unhinged.

I say that with love. And experience. I’m genuinely happy being single right now. Not exactly calm. Not especially centred. But I know who I am and I like her. Even when she does things like… message a man’s mother to ask her to pass along my number.

Let’s not pretend I’ve always made it look easy.

My dating life’s always been the talk of the town within my friendship group - especially the very coupled-up, very entertained ones who live vicariously through my chaos. They cheer me on. They treat my escapades like a Netflix series they never want to end. And I, generously, continue to provide content.

Here’s what I’ve learned about myself. I’m extremely determined. When I want something, or someone, I go all in. When I get an idea in my head, I commit. This is often a wonderful trait. It makes me driven, proactive, brave. It also occasionally makes me act like a complete lunatic.

Let’s begin with the Instagram guy.

This was someone I had never met, but had decided I was completely into. He had hundreds of thousands of followers and clearly had no idea I existed. But I was undeterred.

My logical brain (yes, I have one) kicked in and said, “You need to do something different.” Because obviously a man with a following that big probably got loads of DMs. I needed an edge. Something creative. Something memorable.

I thought, how do I stand out? Cue the marketer in me.

So I decided to message... his mum.

Yes. His actual mother.

In my defence, I’d seen her commenting on his posts, so I knew she was active. I figured she’d appreciate the initiative. I sent a very polite, slightly mortifying, message asking if she’d be open to passing along my number to her son.

Let me be clear. I was stone-cold sober. My friend was beside me. She said “do it.” So really, this was her fault.

Unsurprisingly, I never heard from him. I can only assume my message now lives in a screenshot in some family group chat under the heading “WTF?!?!?!?!”. Would I do it again? No. I’ve retired that particular move. But I do still believe in shooting your shot. Doing it for the plot. As the great Nora Ephron said, Everything is copy.

Which brings me to story number two. A tale of mild obsession, poor decisions, and the London Underground.

There was a guy I fancied. We’d met a few times, but it was vague. Half-hearted conversations. Delayed replies. It wasn’t going anywhere, but my brain hadn’t caught up yet.

One day, I was out with some friends, very rosé-fuelled, when I found out he was going to a club that night. I was meant to be going somewhere else, but I decided - suddenly and with great conviction - that I needed to be where he was.

What followed was a night of pure chaos. It started with a couple of drinks in the afternoon that escalated far too quickly, as these things often do when rosé is involved. I went home for what was meant to be a quick reset before heading out with a different group that evening, but instead spent the next five hours frantically trying to convince them to change plans and come to the other club where he would be. There were about 89 FaceTime calls. No one was convinced.

Eventually, I decided to go solo. I fell asleep on the Jubilee Line and rode it to both ends. Three times. The entire journey took two hours. At one point, I thought I’d lost my jacket, until I remembered I’d never actually brought it.

And for reasons I still can’t explain, I did all of this wearing gym kit - which is wildly off-brand for me - paired with a huge handbag. I turned up to one of the busiest clubs in London looking like I’d sprinted from a spin class via a lost property bin. The queue was enormous, it was absolutely pissing it down, and by the time I got inside, I looked like a drowned rat.

And just to round things off, I didn’t even tell the guy I was going. I just… showed up.

In hindsight, I have no idea what I thought would happen. Genuinely, what was the plan? Tap him on the shoulder and go “Surprise!”?

Thankfully, I didn’t see him. But the night took a turn. I bumped into a girl I made friends with in the queue. She took me under her wing. We partied behind the booth all night, shared drinks, and swapped Instagram handles at 3am. I’ll be honest, I completely forgot her name until she added me the next day.

I figured I’d never see her again. But four months later, I was in a huge, heaving tent at Glasto when someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Charlie, right?”

It was her.

The girl from the queue.

Because of course it was her.

I’d gone out chasing someone who wasn’t interested and ended up having a much better night with someone who actually showed up for me. There’s a lesson in there, somewhere. About what we choose. What we chase. What we miss while we’re fixated on something that clearly isn’t choosing us back.

I think it’s easy to romanticise the chase, especially when you’re someone like me who loves a good story. I’ve never subscribed to the idea that women should sit back and wait. I don’t believe in staying in my “feminine energy” and hoping someone picks me. I believe in going after what I want. I just occasionally wish I wanted slightly better things.

The truth is, I haven’t totally calmed down. I haven’t completely mastered boundaries. I still get carried away. I still send the text. I still try. But I’m more aware now of what chasing the wrong thing feels like. That slight ache in your gut, the tension in your chest, the way your nervous system feels like it’s on high alert instead of at ease.

That’s the shift. I want ease. Not in a passive way, but in a “maybe I don’t have to chase someone across London on a hunch” kind of way. I want things that feel good in my body, not just in my imagination.

I still believe in romance. Deeply. I believe in love that sweeps you up and surprises you. I believe in bold moves. In telling people how you feel. But I also believe in saving some of that energy for yourself.

No more chasing people who need to be convinced.

Just stories worth telling - and someone who’s glad you came, not mildly alarmed you found the address.

Until then, I’ll be out somewhere, probably making friends with a stranger in a queue.

All in the name of the plot.

And yes, I’m fully aware this makes me sound like an absolute psychopath. But no men were harmed during the making of this content (only my ego).