When I had always promised myself I’d stop dating men who worked at nightclubs – I met “The Doorman” – six foot something, shoulders like wardrobes, and a smile that could convince anyone that “guest list only” included them. (He did let me in several times though, skipping the queue, which I must admit, did make me just feel like a real VIP).

Our first proper date seemed promising. He suggested a nice meal at a BYOB restaurant. Bring Your Own Bottle, he explained, because he was “a man who liked his wine.” I brought a nice bottle of white, while he brought… enthusiasm.

Before they decided to go out for dinner and drink wine, her said, “You can stay at mine tonight if you like – I just got a new house.”

A new house! I was thinking “he has it all together”… Little did I know…

So, when we arrived at the newly purchased house, I was caught off guard by the sight of… well… nothing…

There it stood: a bare, echoing box of a house with one lonely mattress on an old rusty bedframe in the middle of the living room. No sheets. No pillows. No duvet. No curtains. It looked less like a home and more like a crime scene waiting to happen.

He must have seen my expression so he quickly said with a big smile: “it’s a working progress”. He wasn’t lying.

Beside this working progress living/bedroom situation, you could call him a minimalist with the bathroom too – no door, no mirror, no soap, not even toilet paper! Just a toilet and the echo of bad decisions.

Moments later, he turned a bit green. “I think the food or wine didn’t agree with me,” he mumbled before dramatically sprinting to the doorless bathroom and… making sounds that would clear a nightclub faster than a fire alarm.

I just sat there on the mattress, buffering like a bad Wi-fi, wondering where it all went wrong and overall, contemplating my life decisions.

Eventually, he reappeared, pale and determined, “I’m gonna need to go rest at my mum and dad’s. You stay here, yeah? Just close the door, it will lock itself.”

And just like that, he left. He didn’t even give me the chance to ask for a duvet or a jacket to cover myself – I was in shock, frozen in the moment, sitting on this bare bed.

So, me, slightly tipsy, stranded in this creepy house, took matters in my own hand, went into the other rooms, opened all built in cabinets hoping to find anything to cover myself with – and there it was: a toddler’s blanket. I left my dignity and disgust aside (yes it didn’t look clean at all), I wrapped my legs in that blanket (couldn’t cover anything else with it) and tried to sleep the alcohol off.

I spent a few hours in that unheated house, staring at the ceiling and contemplating every romantic decision I’d ever made.

By 4 am, I gave up on sleep, my dignity, and especially, him. I got in my car, and drove home – arrived home with a headache, completely frozen, and slightly enlightened. And yes, first thing I did is taking a long hot shower.

We never met again.

Moral of the story: Always check if a man’s “new house” has doors, bedding, and basic plumbing before you agree to stay over.