Here’s a social experiment for you: ask anyone who is “on the apps” how their love life is going, and watch the light drain from their eyes. Dating has never been easy, but it used to have the promise of fun. Lately, many on the frontline report finding it hard to drum up enthusiasm to go for a drink, let alone find love. A 2020 study of online daters in the US found that 45% felt frustrated by the experience and a more recent survey by the dating app Badoo found that 78% felt stressed and let down by incompatible matches. Another Badoo survey found that millennials spend an average of 90 minutes a day trying to line up a date. “Dating app fatigue,” as it has been termed, is certainly real. With matches who may not even be real people, opening lines that might have been generated by ChatGPT and conversations that fizzle out as quickly as they start, the appetite for new ways to connect with people for potential romance is high. But do they work? EH Singles dinners Last summer, frustrated by how transactional dating apps felt and how half-heartedly everyone (including me) seemed to be engaging with the process, I decided to host a dinner for single friends and friends of friends: 14 people, welcome cocktails, plentiful food and wine, time to mingle at the start and seat swaps (every other person moving two spots to the left between courses) to maximise interaction. Nothing like the stress of a first date, more like going to a friend’s for dinner. A bit chaotic; a lot of fun. I’ve hosted four now, varying the cast by delving deep into my contacts and badgering everyone I know to send single friends my way – old housemates, friends’ partner’s brothers; all are welcome. I love to cook, but for these dinners I keep it simple – seasonal dishes served family-style, prepared in advance so that I don’t get stuck in the kitchen. There have been some budding romances as a result, but the dinners primarily offer a place to build authentic connection in a social setting, without the intensity of a one-on-one date or the pressure of any specific outcome. I’ve found that these small, intimate gatherings offer the opportunity to fixate less on getting into a relationship and instead embrace the possibility of connection in all its forms: casual hook-ups, friendship, someone to register for a sprint triathlon with. The less-than-six-degrees-of-separation between guests gives a layer of accountability missing from internet strangers, too: more humanity to the hook-ups; less ghosting after the dates. For the practically minded, they are an efficient way to meet multiple people, hitting your dating indicators in one sitting. And they offer a counter to the despondent refrain of there being “no good men (or women) left” – one friend said it gave them hope, in a world where it can seem like everyone is already coupled up, to be seated at a table with seven interesting and eligible potential matches. I’ve had considerably more fun putting my energy into planning and hosting these dinners than I ever had scrolling the apps and, with a growing list of invitees as word spreads, I’m excited about what is to come. RC Dating docs To optimise the search for love, some singles are turning to public-facing documents resembling personal ads – or a kind of dating CV – known as “date me” docs. Typically, these are published on personal websites or via a Google doc link. Luzia, 26, from London, created a six-page doc that includes everything from what she wants in a partner to “cute date ideas”. “I’ve gone on two dates from the doc so far, and am going on two more this week – so it does actually work,” she says. For Lulie Tanett, 33, from Oxford, dating docs allow her to go beyond the predefined categories set by apps like Hinge, such as “height” or “star sign”. “I can can say, actually, what matters to me is ‘parenting philosophy’ or ‘favourite video game’,” she says. The prospect of writing up a doc can be daunting – which is why Nathan Young, 29, from London, got his ex to write one for him. “I didn’t want to come across as self-aggrandising,” he says. Her review of him was “very honest” and generally positive. As Young puts it, “she has a rosy view”. Since posting the doc on Twitter, Young has had about 10 responses – a success compared to the apps. “I have quite a clipped writing style, and I think it comes across as kind of blunt and rude [on dating apps],” he says. The doc, by comparison, feels like a more “authentic” representation. Tanett says that, after her doc was retweeted by an acquaintance with 172,000 followers, she was flooded with responses (she currently has 159 unopened messages sent via a form on her doc). But not everyone feels comfortable sharing theirs so publicly, instead choosing to circulate their doc among smaller online communities or mutual friends. “I wouldn’t want someone I interact with in a professional way to see it,” Luzia says. “I have a few friends who sometimes send it on, so that helps with meeting new people.” Making sure the doc is seen by the right people is crucial to success, which is why Steve Krouse, 29, from New York, launched the Date Me Directory last year, enabling people to filter docs from others around the world. It has also allowed Rouse to get more eyes on his own doc, which is pinned to the top of the directory. “My doc is like a love letter to the internet,” he says. “And, occasionally, I’ll get beautiful love letters back.” DS The Pear ring Billed as “the world’s biggest social experiment”, the Pear ring is a bright turquoise rubber ring that single people can wear to signal that they are open to being approached. That’s it. There’s no hidden tech, no subtext depending on which finger you wear the ring, no exclusive event it gets you into (though plans for a singles festival “PearFest” are reportedly in the works for this summer). The whole idea is that you wear it out and about, to the supermarket or the dry cleaner, say, and trust that someone hot, compatible and up-to-date on their social experiments will see it. I first came across the Pear ring in a sponsored ad on Instagram, the algorithm having finally figured out that it was wasting its energies with pregnancy tests. I thought it was a brilliant idea – if only relative to dating apps. Any attempt to engineer in-person connection was welcome, no matter how contrived – or expensive: a set of three Pear rings costs £20. It is not possible to buy only one. Still, like Cinderella’s glass slipper, the true worth of the Pear ring (“pairing” – get it?) can’t be calculated in cost-per-wear. I duly change my social media handles to include the pear emoji, as instructed, “to show you’re single and open to DMs”. I continue to receive DMs only from bots offering investment opportunities and Shein gift cards. The real test of the Pear ring is in the field, so to speak. But its first outing, to hot yoga then to a Tesco Express, goes unremarked upon – as, indeed, does its second. The first person to recognise my Pear ring is my friend Molly, who spots it in a picture of me dangling my cat on Instagram. I feel a bit disgruntled; I don’t need to pay £20 and wear a lurid ring to get a message from Molly. By Friday night, down the pub, I’m so desperate to make a return on my Pear ring, I point it out to everyone I speak to. “But how would anyone know what it means?” says my friend Sophie, confused. I have no good answer but, knowing there are apparently 500,000 rings in circulation (globally), I refuse to call time on the experiment. At one point, while energetically demonstrating how the turquoise catches the light, I wave my hand in a passing man’s face as if I’m doing the Single Ladies dance and consider that I might have lost sight of the goal of in-person connection – that I might even be repelling potential partners – but promptly dismiss it. If he liked it, then he would have took the Pear ring off it. EH Dating friends I don’t remember the exact point that it turned into a date, only that by the end of it – two hours of talking, three drinks and one invitation back to her flat to “meet her dog” – it definitely was. We had plenty of mutual friends and, on the way to meet her, I texted one saying I thought – hoped – it might be a date, but that you never can tell. Perhaps this is part of the thrill of dating friends, or friends of friends. After six years of cycling through the modern dating continuum – downloading, deleting, re-downloading the apps – I started losing interest in them. The alternative was to date people I met in the real world which, save for the meet-cutes at bus stops or over busy bars, often meant dating within my wider friendship circle. There is risk: misreading the signals and going in for a snog with an unsuspecting, unimpressed mate is enough to put anyone off, and it’s certainly less clear cut without the simplicity of swiping right. But when it’s good, the benefits are compelling. Knowing already that someone is kind, interesting and trustworthy enough to be in your life in some capacity means that, instead of spending the first few months anxiously trying to locate red flags, you are just having fun (and potentially reassessing what was already there). It also gives you a reason – and the ability, maybe – to speak more openly about the status of your relationship, and to make sure that things stay polite, even if it doesn’t work out. That is not to say that things couldn’t go spectacularly wrong. Friends can argue, friends of friends can still ghost – or, worse, never really disappear after you break up, even if you want them to. And, although I’ve had some meaningful relationships by making that move with a friend (one lasted almost five years), I’m still single. Even so, I haven’t ventured back to the apps, holding out instead for real-world romance within my existing network. As with any prospective date, you never can tell. ZB