IN theory at least, we have now entered a new phase of the pandemic: the ambitiously-titled "living alongside Covid".

Politicians can’t get enough of that phrase and for good reason.

It puts a helpful distance between the decisions they make and the ongoing impact of the virus.

But as we all know, Covid is not an easy neighbour to live alongside.

Life is still stuck in that unnerving state of not-quite-normal and we’re all just trying to make the best of it.

For singletons, that means getting back into the dating game.

Thankfully, those dreary days of first dates spent trudging through parks are over and video-call romance is a distant memory.

We can date as we did pre-pandemic and in a way, it’s disappointing, because many of us were hoping for something more.

During the pandemic (around the time the Scottish Government banned singletons from having sex with anybody they weren’t prepared to apply for a joint mortgage with) there was talk of rampant debauchery when we were finally released from our homes.

There was an unspoken agreement that when we were allowed to resume our quests for love, we would do so with a bit more pzazz than before.

There would be spontaneity and grand gestures. Self-doubt would be shed along with clothes and face masks. This would be a new era of romance that was unlike anything we had seen before.

But, as it turns out, nobody has the energy for it.

Much like the rest of the population, singletons are exhausted. When you’ve spent two years in jogging bottoms and slippers it’s hard to find the strength to channel your inner Jessica Rabbit.

The last date I went on was with a handsome Irishman who was frankly out of my league.

Usually, I seek to bridge any aesthetic inequality using my natural charm and sparkling wit.

But I couldn’t focus on the moment. Instead, I was wondering what terrible news had broken during the two cocktails I’d been off Twitter.

I was worrying about whether I’d manage to get an Uber home, or if the driver shortage meant I was destined for another 45-minute wait in the cold.

I thought about how I really needed a proper sleep before work the next day and how alien it felt to be out past 9pm.

There was no second date.

During lockdown, we dreamed about all the wonderful things we would do with our new-found freedom. We didn’t spend much time considering the fact that everything – including ourselves – would have changed by the time we eventually emerged.

There’s still so much we haven’t fully processed but instead of respite to soothe our shattered nerves, we’ve been hit with unrelenting waves of bad news.

You need to be in a certain headspace to go on a first date. The person across the table from you deserves your full attention.

Which is quite difficult when you find yourself fantasising about the sweet nothings and fuel bill tips you wish money-saving expert Martin Lewis would whisper in your ear.

It’s worth persevering though, for the battle stories, if nothing else.

I thought of this the weekend when I read Kevin McKenna’s highly entertaining feature on author Sophie Gravia, and her bestselling book about online dating, A Glasgow Kiss.

I trust Kevin when he says that, as well as being outrageously funny, the book offers a timely reflection of the experience of being a single woman in the digital age.

But that wasn’t the reason I immediately ordered myself a copy. I did so because I’m a sucker for bad-date stories.

It’s lovely when your friend tells you about the really sweet man she had a fantastic first date with.

You’re pleased for her; of course you are.

But there’s nothing like the jolt of excitement you get when somebody promises you a dating run-down that is too funny and too terrible to waste on a message.

When she says she has to tell you in person, preferably over a whisky cocktail or three, that’s when you know you’re in for a good time.

There’s nothing unusual about deriving pleasure from other people’s dissatisfying forays in the romantic arena. Doesn’t misery love company?

Anybody who has spent any time on the dating scene will have at least one juicy tale to tell.

For some of us, these anecdotes provide welcome relief from the po-faced predictions of doom that seem to follow single women around the internet.

Those dastardly algorithms have pushed a few such articles into my social media feeds in recent weeks.

One was a guide to successfully dating when you’re over 30. It seems that – statistically at least – my chances aren’t great.

Another was full of helpful advice on dating as a single parent. The conclusion of that one was that I am likely to shrivel up and die through lack of romantic attention.

It didn’t say "buy a cat" but the suggestion was heavily implied. And if I wasn’t terribly allergic, I probably would.

We should take such analysis of our dating fortunes with a pinch of salt.

Boris Johnson has seduced enough women to produce a football team of children.

He’s also enjoyed a fistful of marriages and more extra-marital affairs that even he can count.

I think the rest of us will be just fine.

And anyway, the end goal of dating doesn’t need to be to find true love.

In this economy, who has the time?

It’s not a failure if you don’t find that person that you feel totally comfortable with from the moment you meet. The stars don’t need to align and the earth doesn’t need to shake. If you need somebody to make you laugh, just tune into an interview with any government minister, on any given day, as they try and fail to defend the latest scandal.

The world is a miserable place right now. Dates – the good, the average and the comically bad – can help momentarily lift the gloom. And sometimes it’s just nice to get out of the house.

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