“I never go to a visit empty‑handed!” proudly declared the 59‑year‑old fiancé, pulling out a half‑opened pack of tea. How I elegantly sent him out the door.

Ive always believed that dating after fifty belongs to people who have settled views, solid life experience and at least a basic sense of propriety. I no longer buy into the fairytale of princes on white horses.

Im fiftyfive, I work, I have an adult daughter, a cosy flat in Manchester and a reasonably balanced life. Still, every now and then I crave a simple human warmtha night at the theatre, a coffee, a chat about a book Ive just finished.

With that in mind I sign up on a dating site. Among the flood of odd messages and outright absurd offers, Georges profile stands out for its sensible tone.

Hes fiftynine. His photos show a fit man in a tidy blazer, posed under the trees of a summer park. In our messages he is courteous, peppered with compliments, and he talks about his work as an engineer and his love of classical music.

After a week of texting we arrange to meet in a café. George proves exactly as his pictures suggested: tall, with a touch of silver, and a smooth way of speaking. He pulls out my chair, orders two cappuccinos (he declines the dessert, saying hes watching his sugar), and spends the evening lecturing on why todays world still needs traditional values.

Im a man of the old school, Ainsley, he says, looking straight into my eyes. To me a woman is a muse. A man should be the provider and protector. I cant stand the modern habit of keeping separate bills. Courtship ought to be done with style.

It sounds almost musical. We meet two more times, stroll along the riverbank, talk endlessly. Then the weekend arrives and the weather finally turns nastyan unforgiving November drizzle.

Ainsley, why dont I pop round for dinner? Georges velvety voice suggests over the phone. Well sit in the warmth, have a proper chat. Of course I dont come emptyhandedIll sort everything out. All I need from you is a cosy home and a smile.

Im not the sort of English lady who relies on a smile alone. From the moment I wake, I launch a fullscale cleanup. I then head to the supermarket, picking up good quality beef, fresh veg, a selection of cheeses and a pricey baguette. I spend about three hours at the stove.

I roast the beef with prunesmy signature dish that never fails to impress. I toss together a light salad, arrange the dining room, bring out crystal glasses and light a few candles. I slip into an elegant house dress and apply a subtle makeup.

As the appointed hour approaches I feel as jittery as a schoolgirl before her first date.

Exactly seven oclock, the doorbell rings. I smooth my hair, take a deep breath and open the door. George stands there, his coat damp from the rain, looking exceptionally proud.

Good evening, lovely host! he says, stepping inside, removing his hat and beginning to unbutton his coat. From the kitchen wafts the intoxicating scent of the roast. He inhales loudly, grins and declares, Ah, I can already smell a feast waiting for me!

Come in, George. Hang your coat, I reply, halfexpecting the promised gifts. Honestly, I wasnt looking for a hundredrose bouquet or a vintage wine. A box of biscuits, a modest cake or even a single chrysanthemum would have been enough. Its the thought that counts.

George hangs his coat, straightens his jacket, then reaches into his inner pocket with the flourish of a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, and says:

As I told you, Ainsley, I never come emptyhanded. A man should always contribute.

He slides me a pack

I take it reflexively, eyes dropping. Its a cardboard box of the cheapest black teathose supermarketshelf specials. The box bears no fancy label, the flap is torn and haphazardly tucked inside.

I freeze, trying to process what just happened.

George, its opened? I whisper, fearing this is some odd joke.

He isnt embarrassed at all. Instead his face lights up with that patronising smile you use when explaining something obvious to a child.

Of course! I just bought it, steeped a couple of bags myself. Its a strong tea, brews quickly. I thought Id share. No need to lug a whole packetwe wont drink it all in one evening. Youll have something else to pair it with, youre the host after all.

I stand in the hallway of my tidy, candlelit flat. Behind me the roast and its prunes sit cooling, the product of half a days labour and a respectable sum.

In front of me stands a respectable, welldressed fiftynineyearold gentleman, preaching traditional values, who brings a halfstarted packet of pennygrade tea to a romantic dinner. Not a single tea bag left inside.

A hundred possible reactions race through my mind. I could laugh at him, I could launch into a fullblown tirade about his stinginess, or I could stay silent, swallow my irritation, seat him at the table and serve him meat while feeling like a humiliated servant.

I choose a different path. The calm that settles over me surprises even me.

I place the crumpled box gently on the side table by the mirror, meet Georges gaze, and smilegenuinely, with a huge sense of relief that his true colour is revealed right at my doorstep, not after months of courting.

George, I say, my voice even and soft, Im truly touched by your generosity. But Im afraid we wont need this tea.

His eyebrows rise. Why not? Not a fan of black? I could bring green next timeIve still got half a packet at work

The next time wont happen, I answer, equally calmly. You were right about a man contributing, but your contribution is so spectacular that I simply cant return the favour. My dinner cant match it.

I take his stilldamp coat from the rack and hand it back.

Whats the matter, Ainsley? Offended by a little tea? So mercenary! I came with all my heart after a hard week, and you throw a fit over a trifle! Modern women only care about money and restaurants!

I need respect, George. First and foremost, respect for myself. Put your coat back on; its cold outside. And dont forget your tea, otherwise youll catch a chill and have nothing to treat it with.

I place the halfused tea box back in his hands, give him a gentle nudge toward the door and close it behind him.

The lock clicks. Silence fills the flat, broken only by the ticking clock. I walk to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of decent red wine, cut a slice of the aromatic roast, and sit at the beautifully set table. Alone.

And you know what? The dinner is spectacular. The meat melts in my mouth, the wine sings in the crystal. I feel neither disappointment nor lonelinessonly pride that I didnt let him step all over me.

Men often accuse us of being materialistic, saying we chase sponsors. But lets be honest: it isnt the price of the gift that matters. Its the attitude. A man who brings a woman a halfstarted packet of tea isnt saving money; hes saving his feelings, his respect. He shows that she isnt even worth minimal effort. I will no longer waste my time, energy and life on such traditional providers.

What do you think, dear readers? Have you encountered this kind of male generosity? Or perhaps I was overly harsh and should have given the man a chance?