One of the most interesting profiles I looked at was Philippe’s. He raised my interest mainly because he emailed in French. And I had never dated a Frenchman residing in London. Meaning: I was happy to arrange a date with him and share our London experiences. Plus, the textual chemistry between us was friendly, and I guessed we could have a good and fun time.

So, meet Philippe: dark hair, dark eyes and athletic. He liked travelling, fine dining, get-aways in the country, and he was looking for new friends.

We decided to meet for a coffee at Yalla Yalla on Winsley Street. In my cab, I scrolled through pictures on Tinder and had a second look at Philippe’s profile – I was hoping he was who he said he was.

I noticed that Philippe was active only two minutes ago. Um? Maybe he was doing the same and checking out my pictures? Or, more likely, he was just scrolling through the app for more matches organising his dating week like I was too.

Philippe was waiting for me outside the restaurant. I have to say that I didn’t recognise him. He vaguely resembled the photos I’d just looked at. The difference wasn’t as shocking as fat and furious Gary, but he went from a 7/10 to a 5/10. Plus, the way he was dressed, he looked like a naff to me, making me think that he was clearly not from Paris. He was trying too hard to be trendy and, apparently, he had recently discovered Photoshop.

Philippe was quite short; I had medium heels and I was as tall as him. He was not medium-built but borderline fat. He smelled like he had just jumped in a pool full of Harrods’s perfumes.

I concluded his pictures were at least a year old. I reckoned he was nervous as he kept on gesticulating making me look at him like I was watching a powerful tennis match.

Philippe wasn’t French, but Belgian. No offence, but his French accent was horrible. Understandable yet detestable. The more he spoke, the more I wanted to laugh, but in a good way.

While Philippe was babbling about his life, I noticed a strain of dry blood on his left ear. I had a closer look and realised that he might have cut himself whilst shaving as he had an open wound and I could see his flesh. I couldn’t stop looking at it in disgust. I decided to look elsewhere, feeling sick, but on the other side of his face, I could see fresh scratches all over his cheeks. What the hell had happened to him? I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying anymore. I looked at the table and started to drink my hot coffee as fast as possible. I looked at his hands that were moving everywhere and they looked like he had been gardening that morning and had forgotten to wash them.

That was it – I had to go. Philippe, thank God, finished his coffee before me, so I asked, "Should we ask for the bill?"

He asked, "You don't want anything else?"

“I am fine,” I said with determination.

The cherry (oh! Is it icing?) on the cake was when Philippe, sitting in front of me, stood up obliging me to look at his crotch. That was when I discovered his unzipped trousers with his bold penis saluting me. Everybody has a right to be careless, but Philippe was over the top, just exaggerating! I thought I was going to faint. I couldn’t bear the show I had in front of me.

This time I had to tell him, "Philippe, your pen..." I could not pronounce the words; I just pointed my finger at his trousers. He blushed and zipped his pants as if he’d just urinated. I was flabbergasted that he wasn’t enveloped by shame. We just walked away.

Ready to go to never see him again, I just shook his hand to say goodbye; I didn't want to kiss him and see his shaving cut.

So, I decided to walk towards Green Park, thinking that Philippe was heading towards the tube station. This was a bad guess because, unfortunately, Philippe was walking in the same direction and decided to tag along with me for a little while.

We walked for a few minutes, and that's when I understood that Philippe was living in a Buddhist temple near London Bridge. It was, to his point of view, the most affordable way to live in central London. I am quoting: "Churches and temples are very cheap to rent. It's small, and you have to live with other people, but the rents are way below the market prices."

Philippe had lived all over the world with no particular purpose. He had had plenty of wacky business ideas and occupied a variety of positions. By then, he was a physiotherapist on Harley Street.

Then, amidst an awkward silence, Philippe decided to fart out loud. “Putain, c’est pas possible, Quel con!” I thought. I couldn’t stand him anymore, and he barely apologised.

“Oh, I’m getting sick!” he said with his funny accent. He was driving me batty; I decided to escape and grabbed the first cab I could stop. I sank into it, closed the door just after me without a goodbye. I never saw Philippe Le Belge again. Next!