Right, that's done! Let's go! Operation: Let's meet up! I start scrolling… After two hours, the verdict is in, and it's final: national depression. Out of a hundred per cent of profiles: Ninety per cent: zero comments! Is introducing yourself a paid feature? Five per cent: one word! 'Hello', 'Hi'… thank you, poetry of life! Two point five per cent: one sentence! 'I love life.' 'Me too.' Instant connection! Where have the remaining two point five per cent gone? I was hoping for… at least one full sentence! And suddenly, right in the middle of this emotional and literary desert… a photo. Boom! No, seriously, the sort of photo that makes you feel a rush of heat, even without air con. BOOM!! Yet, nothing out of the ordinary, just a face… but… one that intrigues me. I take a closer look: one eye that's smiling, one eye that's hiding something… something really deep! I need to know more. I click. At last, a long text! Yes! … in a completely unknown language… No! I check to be sure… No, not English, not Spanish, not even a dialect that vaguely resembles German. A Martian language. I think to myself: fake profile. It's got to be. Unless it's a Baltic spy on a mission? Too dodgy. I close it. No energy for a geopolitical love conspiracy. And I start scrolling again… until I'm mentally exhausted. I close the app with the grace of a soufflé collapsing. Drained, limp, my soul shrivelled up. I need to… getsomeair. Round one. I head to the Presqu'île du Sel, opposite Île du Croco. The sun, the sea, life, happiness! I come back feeling revitalised! Right, I'm off again! The very same day, yes, I know… emotional weakness. But I've made a commitment to myself: to persevere for at least forty-eight hours before declaring love definitively dead. And then, a sign of fate or the magic of the algorithm? The same photo pops up again! And BOOM! OK, Universe, I see you… Yes! This time, the text is in English! A revelation! It's deep, intelligent, sensitive. A real human, with a brain and a heart. A species now protected. I should point out that ChatGPT doesn't exist yet. Well, actually it does, but nobody's using it. Well, actually they are, but not me. So I write to him in English, using two fingers, sticking my tongue out slightly – casual but charming (well, I hope so, anyway). And I suggest we meet up: on such-and-such a day, at such-and-such a time, at such-and-such a well-known place. One initial contact. Todo va bene! … No reply. Right, fine. I refuse to mope about whilst I wait. I book two more dates, just on principle. You shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket. I close the app and get on with my life… getsomeair. Round two. Two days later… Bling! One notification! — Sorry, I was celebrating my birthday yesterday… Blah blah blah… Long story short: it's all sorted for a meet-up at the beach this Friday, late afternoon. One date. Perfect! One summer date, the sun sets at eleven at night. One plan B all sorted just in case: One live gig, just a minute away, right by the water's edge – brilliant! Dignity intact. Worst-case scenario, I can always… getsomeair. Round three.
