Sunday morning, I was in my bath swiping – left, left, left, well maybe right, no, left thanks, left… Wow! I stopped on Chris’s picture. He had no text profile but a dozen of good-looking pictures. For some reason, his face seemed familiar. Even tooooo familiar. I questioned myself, “Where could I have met this man? One of my colleagues in the accounting department? My ground floor neighbour? Cashier at Waitrose?” I wasn't sure. His profile didn't give anything away. My shallowness took the hell out of me; I decided to take the risk and swiped right.

We instantly matched, but I felt that 9am was a little bit too early to message, and I decided to postpone our chat to later that day.

I totally forgot about the match until later in the evening, when I received a Tinder-text from Chris: < Do you fancy me? >

What a way to start a chat, I thought, and replied: < I suppose that I like the look of you. >

Two minutes later Chris replied: < I only ask because I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable by trying to kiss you on our next date tomorrow. >

I didn't know what to reply, but his audacity made me smile.

He texted again: < May I have a phone number? > I gave my number to Chris and we spoke until midnight. I hadn’t spoken to a man for that long since Harper. He was quite interesting.

So, Chris, 37-year-old, blond, almond green eyes, 6-foot tall, extremely well-built. The reason why I felt like I knew him was that Chris was an actor, and had played in a plethora of American and British action movies. We planned to meet Monday for a cinema date. I know cinema date…

After I had hung up and was all snuggly tucked up in bed, Chris sent: < I really fancy you. I think you look beautiful. Shall I send you a picture of me in my underwear? >

Well… I was confused dot com! What the heck? What made him think I was ok with such a thing?

I replied, trying to hide my annoyance: < Why would you want to send me a pic of you in your underwear? >

I could feel the embarrassment from Chris through his text. He simply replied: < I have no idea. Silly text. Sorry. >

Seriously? What was wrong with these men? The world was spinning out of control. Was daddy’s romance dead? I hoped not. I wished not. I knew not.

I added: < Or maybe this was a trick to get mine > and Chris rushed to reply: <I would love to see you in your underwear. Less even! >

Now, I wasn't feeling too sure about the date.

That is why it took me 15 minutes on the day to decide whether or not I should meet him. Then I realised that the more I was thinking, the more it was getting late and it would be rude to cancel. Too late! Chris was probably being on his way. I had to go.

I didn’t like that Chris texted me on his way to Leicester Square, "The cinema is a treat on you! I’ll pay for the drinks!”. Why would you send such a text? I found the approach quiet rude. Clearly shows his lack of manners.

Anyways, Chris and I were to see Mad Max at 8pm. I arrived 15 minutes after him and Chris was clearly not happy about it.

Well, I ignored his fury. He was still super sexy, even more handsome in the flesh. As for me, I had three huge spots and a puppy mood because of my period. I bought the tickets and we decided to have a drink at Chiquito before the showing, two steps from the cinema.

Chris and I sat for at least ten minutes and nobody was getting our order. It seemed that the service was very slow. Either way, Chris appeared to have his period as well, as he started to grumble and went to find someone.

He returned to the table, looking cross, with a waiter who seemed somewhat embarrassed.

The mood at the table was disconcerting and tense. I'm not sure what had happened, but I was very uncomfortable. As soon as the waiter took our order, Chris exclaimed, "What a fucker!"

I stood there and said nothing, but Chris added, "When I went to see him, he told me he was not in charge of our table. I said that I couldn't give a fuck who was in charge of what. Quality and service require teamwork.”

I was wide-eyed by Chris’s audacity. The waiter, who was disconcerted and probably still shocked and upset by Chris’s behaviour, came back to us, and unfortunately, he spilt wine on my shirt and the table. All of a sudden, I saw Chris taking him by the neck, "You piece of shit! You did that on purpose! Son of a bitch!"

I shouted at Chris, afraid by this desire to fight. "No, no, let him go! What are you doing? It’s all fine. It’s just white wine! It does not matter!"

Chris tried to punch the waiter in the face, but thank God, the waiter dodged the hit. The security officer arrived and threw us out of the restaurant like non-recyclable paper – without consideration.

Pissed, I asked Chris, "Chris, what the hell was that?”

“Leave me alone," he said calmly. “I'm too upset to talk."

He sulked as we walked quickly towards the cinema. I wasn’t sure what I was still doing there. I suppose I just thought that Chris needed to talk to someone to help him evacuate his anger.

As we arrived at the cinema, the movie was about to start, and we sat in an awkward silence.

Throughout the film, Chris did not say a word. He looked cold and full of hatred, his lips clenched and pinched. He watched the film, bubbling with tension.

The film ended, we left the cinema. The atmosphere was still so strained that I allowed myself to take a cigarette (something I have never done upon a date).

Chris asked, "Can I have a cigarette? I need to relax now, I am still fuming."

I replied, a bit reassured, "Indeed."

I gave him one, and we both lit up.

A few seconds later, a guy came and asked for a cigarette. He sounded French and really friendly, but I did not even have the time to respond and chat with him. Chris took him by the neck and shouted, spitting in his face, his eyes full of anger, "Do you think that this lady has an off-licence shop?"

I couldn’t believe it! Not again! “Leave him alone, please Chris! You’re scaring me. Why do you act like that?”

"This son of a bitch doesn't respect ladies," screamed Chris, his eyes infused with raging nerves, and he kicked the poor French guy, who collapsed head-first on the floor – all for a cigarette. I was horrified and frozen. A few tourists passed by, horrified by the ordeal. The French guy ran away, surely beating Usain Bolt’s athletic world record.

Utterly mortified, I burst, “I'm leaving! You’re nuts! I can’t take anymore!" I started running towards the road to get a taxi.

“Valérie, Valérie! I am so sorry! Please wait! I like you.” He caught my arm and kissed me awkwardly. The kiss wasn't reciprocated.

“I have to go home Chris, I don't feel well, and I think you should have a rest as well.”

“Ok, beauty. Sleep well!”

I didn’t reply and rushed into the first cab, still shocked by Chris' aggressive and scary Kung Fu moves.

In the cab, I quickly pulled myself together, wondering what was wrong with him. He wasn’t even drunk.

I arrived home safely and climbed my stairs. I exchanged the following texts with Chris:

< Did you get home safe? >

< Yes, I did thank you.> I didn’t want to say more.

< Did you have a nice night?> I was flabbergasted that he dared to ask the question.

I just texted back, < Were you ok? >

< Yeah. Really sore head through. Too much chocolate. >

< Scary effects on you > I retorted.

< No, it came on before I came out. >

I didn’t get what Chris meant, and I didn’t want to know. That night, I just put myself to sleep, had a few nightmares of Chris beating me up with his Kung Fu moves.

Well, I never heard back from him after that. He surely understood that his attitude wasn’t appropriate and very improper. What the hell had happened to that guy? Maybe he was on drugs or medication? Was he just trying to show off? What an arrogant waste of oxygen! Next!