My date suggested a walk in minus 20 degrees because “only gold diggers sit in cafés”—but I wasn’t thrown off…

His name was Oliver. In his photos, he looked like your typical thirty-five-year-old Englishmantidy, nothing outlandish. His profile was full of musings on mindfulness, personal growth, and the search for a real, authentic soul. I knew to be cautious; experience taught me that the louder a man talks about seeking a true woman, the more likely he just wants someone conveniently undemanding.

We exchanged messages for a few days. Oliver was polite, though occasionally odd notes crept in. He especially loved discussing his belief that, in his opinion, modern women had been ruined by money.

They all want nothing but fancy restaurants, trips to Ibiza, and flashy phones, he wrote. No one cares about the soul, just walking and having a genuine conversation.

I, ever diplomatic, nodded internally and gently steered the chat elsewhere. Everyone has battle scars; perhaps an ex-wife left him out in the cold, emotionally or literallywho knows? I try not to judge too quickly.

Then he suggested we meet. The problem? It was the dead of winter. Not just a nippy evening, but a bone-crushing cold snapthe kind with minus five degrees Celsius and those bitter gusts that make it feel even colder. The Met Office had declared an orange alert, advising people to stay home if possible.

Lets meet at Regents Park, Oliver texted. Well have a stroll, breathe fresh air, get to know each other without all the frills.

Oliver, I replied, its minus five outsidewell turn into ice sculptures in ten minutes! Perhaps coffee in a café?

His response was swift.

I dont do cafés. Only gold-diggers sit there, waiting to be treated. I need a life companion, someone wholl stick around whether its fire or flood or frost. If its essential for you that I spend ten pounds on you, then were not on the same path.

My curiosity got the better of me. I really wanted to see this purist of relationships, for whom a cup of Americano signalled financial servitude.

Fine, I wrote back. Regents Park it is, 7 PM at the main gate.

Preparation took more than a moment. Out came my thermal underwear, cosy jumper, and, finally, my ski suit. Sturdy boots with thick soles and wool socks, topped with a furry hat.

The mirror reflected someone ready for an Arctic expedition.

Well, Oliver, brace yourself, I winked at my own reflection and stepped out into the icy darkness.

At precisely 7 PM, I stood at the park gate. The cold bit instantly at my cheeksthe only part left exposed. The snow crunched underfoot; not a soul in sight: sensible people, including those so-called gold-diggers, had chosen warmth.

Oliver was waiting, clad in his autumn coat. He shifted from foot to foot, hopped, and desperately blew warm air into his hands. His nose was already a shade of deep purple; his ears glowed bright red.

I approached.

Hello, I said, muffled beneath my scarf.

He looked me up and down, expecting a delicate damsel shivering prettily, giving him an opportunity to play hero. Instead, he faced a figure looking more like a rescue worker on a polar mission.

Hello, he chattered. You really prepared.

You said through fire and flood, so I decided to start with frost, I grinned. Shall we march on and breathe in that fresh air?

Fifteen minutes of fame

We set off down the avenue. This stroll instantly made its way onto the list of the oddest dates of my life.

How do you like the weather? I asked, as if at a cocktail party.

Invigorating, he managed, his face barely moving nowjust his lips, turning steadily blue. I love winter. It tests ones resilience.

Agreed, I nodded. On the subject of gold-diggersexplain your theory. Why is having coffee a sign of being mercenary?

Talking clearly hurthis throat stung from the coldbut his convictions demanded sacrifice.

Because his voice trembled, relationships should be about genuine interest in each other, not in wallets. If a woman cant just walk, but immediately expects a treat, shes just a consumer.

What if a woman simply wants to avoid pneumonia? I asked, adjusting my hood.

Thats just excuses, he snapped, loudly sniffing. Those who really want to be here find a wayjust need to bundle up better.

Well, as you can see, I bundled up, I gestured at my bulk. But you, it seems, didnt. Honestly, are you sure youre not freezing?

Im fine! he retorted, though he was shivering so much it was obvious, even in the dim light.

After ten minutes, we reached the parks central plaza, beside a closed coffee stand. Oliver gazed at it longingly, like a tragic hero.

Shall we head back? he suggested. The winds picking up.

Come now! I cheered. Weve just begun. You wanted to know my soul. Lets talk literature. Do you like Jack London? He wrote a wonderful story, To Build a Firethe man in it froze to death because he underestimated the cold!

The look he gave me was hardly spiritual.

Listen, I have to go, he interrupted. Somethings come upurgent.

What urgent business? We had plans for the evening.

Work just remembered, havent sent that report.

At eight in the evening? On a Friday?

Yes! he almost shouted.

He spun around and practically jogged for the exit. I followed at a distance, enjoying the moment: my survivalist lasted barely fifteen minutes.

At the Underground, he didnt even say goodbyehe simply vanished into the warm refuge below. I really do hope he thawed out not just his fingers, but maybe his mindset, too. Though I doubt it.

I returned home, brewed myself hot tea, and deleted his messages. I didnt regret the time spent. Those fifteen minutes were a perfect antidote for guilta reminder that looking after myself doesnt make me a gold-digger. Its just healthy self-respect, and thats something worth preservingno matter the weather.