I was in yesterday’s shirt and Sophie’s socks. My mouth tasted like a pub carpet. The good frying pan was already ruined. That is how you know it was a proper night.
We were halfway through a full English before anyone said it out loud. Mia pointed her fork at the whiteboard we keep for shopping lists and rent reminders and said, right then, we are doing it. Sophie said we were awful. Then she stood up and uncapped the pen.
How a fry up turns into a tribunal
Look, I know how this sounds. Three girls in Parsons Green scoring men like they are on Love Island. Cruel? Maybe. Accurate? Unfortunately yes. We have done worse things before noon. I once paid a Deliveroo driver extra to bring concealer. This is not even top five.
The whiteboard still had “bin bags” and “who bought oat milk” written in the corner. Sophie wiped it with a tea towel that has seen things. Then she wrote names. First names only, because we are not complete monsters, and because I could not remember two of the surnames if you paid me.
Last night was one of those Soho ones that starts with “just a quick one” and ends with someone crying in a doorway that is not even their doorway. We split up after midnight, which is when the trouble usually starts. I went south. Mia went wherever the free drinks were. Sophie lasted until 1am and then did that thing where she pretends she is being responsible while still dancing.
By the time we all got home, two of us had company and one of us had principles. I will let you guess.
The scoring system we made up hungover
You cannot rank men with feelings. Feelings make you generous. We used a system instead.
Five categories. Looks on arrival. Conversation that was not about their job. Kissing, if it happened. Whether they paid for anything without making it a speech. And the big one: would you reply tomorrow.
Out of ten each. Sophie wanted a column for “respect.” Mia crossed it out and wrote “vibe.” I added “did he smell like an ashtray.” That one mattered more than I expected.
I know. We are terrible. We also had hash browns. Context matters.
Man one: the finance boy from the smoking area
He found me outside while I was pretending to check my phone. Tall, good coat, the sort of haircut that costs more than my weekly shop. He asked what I did and I said I write about my life, which is true and also a warning. He laughed like I was joking.
We talked for twenty minutes. He was fine. Better than fine if I am being honest, which I am trying to be. He bought me a gin without announcing it to the pavement. Points there.
Then he started explaining his bonus structure. I glazed over so hard I think I left my body. When I came back he was still going. I kissed him anyway because the alternative was standing in the cold listening to tax.
Sophie gave him a six. Mia gave him a four and said “can talk, cannot shut up.” I gave him a seven because the coat was excellent and I am shallow when I am drunk. Average: miserable six.
He is already texting. We will get to that.
Man two: Mia’s one, again
Yes. Again. The same boy from two weeks ago who makes decent coffee and leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor. Sophie did not want him on the board. Mia put him on anyway and drew a little crown next to his name, which I thought was optimistic.
He turned up at the bar like he had been invited. He had not. Mia still lit up, which is either sweet or concerning and I have not decided. They disappeared for an hour. When they came back her lipstick was gone and his jumper was on inside out.
We scored him lower than she wanted. Looks: fine. Conversation: he asked Sophie about work, which she liked. Kissing: Mia said eight and we had to take her word for it. Paying: he got a round in and then ate half my chips. Tomorrow reply: she already had three messages by the time the eggs were done.
Sophie muttered something about patterns. Mia told her to eat her beans.
Man three: the one I should not have gone home with
I am putting this here because if I do not, Mia will. He was shorter than me in the heels. Funny though. Proper funny, not the “I do stand up actually” kind. He worked in production or props or something that meant he had stories about famous people being rude in trailers.
We shared a cigarette I should not have wanted. Then a cab I should not have split. Then my bed, which I definitely should have thought about for longer than I did.
He was good. I am not doing a detailed review because even I have a line, but he was good, and then he fell asleep like a man who had paid a mortgage with his whole body. In the morning he asked if we had mustard. That is the most attractive question I have been asked in months. I nearly kept him for the breakfast alone.
Sophie scored him higher on manners than I expected. Mia wrote “dangerous” in brackets. I gave him an eight and then crossed it out and wrote eight again because pretending I was cooler than that felt fake.
He left before the fry up. Took my number. Did not take the mustard. Respect, I guess.
Man four: the one who talked to Sophie
This is my favourite, because Sophie always acts like she is above the exercise and then gets the most interesting one.
He was at the bar reading the wine list like it was a contract. She said something sarcastic. He laughed. They did that back and forth for ages while Mia and I were being chaotic in the corner. No kissing. No cab. Just a conversation that made her check her phone twice this morning and then flip it over so we would not see.
We still ranked him. Looks: quiet seven. Conversation: nine, and Sophie argued for ten. Kissing: n/a, which Mia called cowardice. Paying: he got her a glass of something that was not house white. Tomorrow: she has not replied yet. That is how you know she likes him. If she did not care she would have sent a polite paragraph already.
I told her to reply. She told me to mind my own ranking.
Then he texted
We were arguing about whether “would you reply tomorrow” should count if the man texts first when my phone lit up on the table.
Finance boy. The coat. The bonus monologue.
Hey. Good to meet you last night. You get home alright?
Mia screamed like we had won something. Sophie said do not answer while you are still holding a sausage. I said I am not twelve.
I stared at it longer than I needed to. That is the annoying bit. Last night he was a seven in a good coat. This morning, with daylight and baked beans and my own reflection in the kettle, he was a maybe.
Peak, or useful? I still do not know. Peak if I reply too fast and he thinks the ranking meeting was a success. Useful if I want a midweek drink that does not require a story. I left him on read for eleven minutes, which felt mature, and then sent “yeah all good, you?” like a person with a job.
He replied immediately. Of course he did.
What the whiteboard actually said by the end
Four names. A lot of numbers that do not mean anything once you put your mascara on. One smiley face Mia drew next to her own disaster. A stain from ketchup that is now part of the art.
Sophie wanted a conclusion. She always does. Something about standards and how we deserve better than men who explain their pensions outside a club. She is not wrong. She is also the one who kept the wine list boy’s Instagram in a drafts folder.
Mia wanted another night out to gather more data. I love her and she is a liability.
I wanted the last bit of toast and a shower and possibly a photograph of the board before we wiped it, because I do anything for a story and I am not going to pretend otherwise. I did not post the names. I am messy. I am not thick.
We wiped most of it. Left “oat milk” because someone still has to buy it. The ketchup stayed. It felt right.
If you are going to judge us
Go on then. I would. Three women in dressing gowns turning last night into sport is not a feminist pamphlet. It is also not that deep. We do it because the night is already over and the only thing left to do with it is talk, and talking is better when there is a pen and a bit of cruelty in it.
None of them were awful. That is the truth I keep circling. They were just men on a Saturday in London, trying it on, getting it right in patches, getting it wrong with the bonus chat and the wet towels and the mustard question that nearly ruined me.
I might see the coat again. I might not. The production one can come back for breakfast if he brings his own brown sauce. Sophie will reply to wine list boy on Tuesday so it does not look keen. Mia will bring hers home again and we will all act surprised.
The whiteboard is blank now, apart from the shopping list. Give it a week. Someone will pick up the pen.