I’m sitting around the table at my friend’s 30th birthday meal, with a group of women I know from school, but haven’t seen in several years.

We’ve been catching up on all the usual topics: work, family, holidays and so on, when the conversation turns to dating.

Or should that be my dating. Because I am the only single one in the group.

‘How’s Hinge going, Sophie?’ one of them asks with a prurient grin. ‘Have you been on any funny dates lately?’

Immediately, all eyes turn to me. There may as well be a spotlight above my head and my name in neon lights, with a ringmaster crying out: ‘Roll up, roll up, come and see the side-splitting singleton Sophie!’

I have been called ‘a Northern Bridget Jones’ by my friends, Sophie Cocherham writes

Of course, there is something cathartic about sharing an awful dating experience with friends. From the man who made me watch his bad electronic dance music video in an otherwise silent pub, to the Olly Murs wannabe, to the one who kept me up until 3am explaining how the pyramids had been ‘planted on Earth by aliens’, the past two years have been filled with plenty of funny anecdotes as, aged 30, I navigate being single for the first time since my late teens.

But while I’m happy to share my stories, I can’t help but feel slightly irked when I’m wheeled out as some kind of freak show and expected to entertain, just because I happen to be the only one not married or in a long-term relationship.

It brings to mind the infamous Bridget Jones dinner party scene (I have been called ‘a Northern Bridget Jones’ by my friends), where the assembled ‘smug marrieds’ ask her why there are so many unmarried women in their 30s. To which she replies, no doubt hacked-off at being patronised for the umpteenth time: ‘I don’t know – I suppose it doesn’t help that underneath our clothes, our entire bodies are covered in scales.’

It can often feel like coupled-up friends are trying to live vicariously through me. By encouraging me to send a risque text or go for another date with a guy I met on a dating app, they’re able to enjoy the excitement of singledom from the comfort of their relationship.

The past two years have been filled with plenty of funny anecdotes as, aged 30, I navigate being single for the first time since my late teens

And that’s the thing; there is no emotional jeopardy for them. They can gasp in shock, or laugh at an amusing tale, while feeling quietly relieved not to be in the same predicament.

Perhaps it’s this imbalance of power that stops the conversations from being fun for me. Maybe I would be more willing to tell my ridiculous stories if they had similar missteps to share with me from their own relationships.

Vaguely describing a recent date I’d enjoyed, but didn’t quite feel that spark on, I was pressed with follow-up questions, such as: ‘What was wrong with him?’ and ‘But did you still sleep together?’

I hadn’t spoken to this particular woman in nearly ten years, and would never have asked about her sex life with her husband – yet because I’m single, it’s assumed that no prying question is off-limits.

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There’s a part of me that does understand. Two years ago, I was the person in a long-term, serious relationship who wanted to be regaled with tales from my single friends, who (sensibly) spent their 20s dating around. I loved hearing their funny stories.

Aside from a period of about nine months when I was 20, I had been in two long-term relationships. The first was when I was 17 and lasted three years; the second was for almost seven years, before we called it a day in January 2022, just before my 28th birthday.

When I decided to start dating ‘properly’ in September that year, I thrived in my new role as the flirty, single friend. Coming from a friendship group that readily takes the mick out of each other, I’ve never been scared to be the butt of the joke, and I’m able to laugh at myself and my own misfortune.

Flash-forward 18 months, however, and telling tales about my dating life is starting to get a tad tiresome – not least because I often feel a pressure to make a disastrous or disappointing date sound funny to save face.

I had a running joke about attracting ‘sad boys’, who start off by telling me they are 100 per cent over their ex, only for them to realise after a few dates with me that they are, it turns out, still very much in love with her.

Although this may say a lot about the unhinged, unhealed nature of Britain’s thirty-something men, I find myself making light of the fact that this was someone I was excited about before it all went pear-shaped.

Of course, rejection is part and parcel of the dating experience – not everyone is going to like you, and vice versa – but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Maybe it’s because I’m a bit older that it feels like an extra touchy subject. I am happy being single and I’ve cultivated a life that is so rich in other areas that, most days, I really feel like I’ve hit the jackpot.

I am happy being single and I’ve cultivated a life that is so rich in other areas that, most days, I really feel like I’ve hit the jackpot

But with four brilliant weddings to attend this year, and a slew of engagement and baby announcements, that nagging feeling that I’ve done life ‘wrong’ by being in a relationship for the majority of my twenties, and am now single at 30, is still there – particularly after a bad date.

It’s not that I’m panicked about getting married or having children. I’m not even sure if I want either any more. These were always two milestones that I quite clearly saw in my future with my ex; but since ending the relationship, I’ve learned to ‘live in the moment’, and refuse to compromise my happiness just so I can be a mum. However, the societal pressure to settle down still weighs heavily.

It’s also no secret that the dating scene over the last couple of years has become dire. According to a survey taken this month by Forbes, 80 per cent of online daters reported feeling ‘burned out’ by using the apps. I can’t help agreeing with them, and the constant onslaught of odd and emotionally unavailable men has made dating more brutal than ever.

So maybe it’s time we started affording a little grace to our single friends. My love life is only on the table for discussion if yours is too. Not keen to share every sordid detail of your relationship or marriage? I don’t blame you. Instead, ask me about my travel plans, what I’ve been working on lately, that gig I went to that looked like loads of fun – anything other than tedious, ‘hilarious’ stories of my dating woes.