He had a huge, cute smile, was super easy to chat to (Picture: Rosie Mullender)

‘Did you realise you’ve got a typo in that feature you just posted? Second paragraph, third line down.’

I let out a deep sigh. I’d been following Dookie3000, as he was known on X (the app formerly known as Twitter), for four years. And in all that time, all he’d done was crack terrible jokes and thoroughly exasperate me.

In the early days of X, when it was a lovely space, I followed pretty much everyone who talked to me. We first connected over a chat about pizza. It was a simpler time.

Little did I know he would become my fiancé.

I was a writer on a glossy magazine who loved parties and cocktails, while he was a passionate gamer who described himself as ‘an indoor cat.’ 

We didn’t seem to have much in common – yet it’s no exaggeration when I say he replied to every single thing I posted on X, all too often with ‘helpful’ criticism about my grammar that made me roll my eyes.

‘Why don’t you just block him?’ my colleagues shrugged whenever I complained about his geeky tweets and regular requests to meet up. But that seemed a bit too harsh.

Dookie was harmless – perhaps a bit lonely, and definitely quite annoying, but not to the extent that I would block him.

We didn’t seem to have much in common (Picture: Rosie Mullender)

Besides, it was a matter of principle – a couple of years earlier, a boyfriend had become so annoyed by Dookie’s constant flirty tweets, he’d grabbed my phone while I was in the loo, and blocked him. 

I only realised what had happened when one of Dookie’s Twitter ‘friends’ – who I later discovered was, in fact, Dookie pretending to be someone else – messaged me, asking ‘what Dookie had done’ to upset me. 

Furious at the breach of trust, I broke up with the boyfriend rather than block Dookie. So now, I kind of felt like I was stuck with him as a Twitter friend.

I didn’t even know his real name until, a few weeks after a bad break-up, a gift arrived at my office. It was a poster of Garth Marenghi’s Darkplace – and because my Twitter bio was, and still is, a quote from the TV show, I knew straight away who had sent it.

‘Thank you for the poster,’ I told Dookie.

‘I can’t do anything about heartbreak, but I thought it might cheer you up,’ he replied.

Dookie was funny, kind and intelligent (Picture: Rosie Mullender)

Frankly, I couldn’t work out if sending presents to my workplace was creepy or cute, but I was depressed, he was lonely, and I didn’t see any harm in arranging a platonic drink.  

Although I’d told Dookie many times that I didn’t meet strangers off Twitter, that was actually untrue: I’d been to several ‘tweet-ups’, and even dated a few people I’d met online, so it didn’t feel like a big deal to go for a quick drink, even if my colleagues very much disagreed.

‘How about we go for a PURELY PLATONIC drink so I can say thank you?’, I wrote.

He replied, ‘Wahoo! A date with Mullies!’, which made me laugh.

And that continued for a few days until our meeting – me saying ‘NOT A DATE’ and him replying ‘I wonder what I’ll wear on our hot date?’ etc. 

I found it quite endearing. 

‘You have to tell us EXACTLY when and where you’re meeting, in case he turns out to be a massive serial killer,”’ my colleagues said, aghast that I was happy to meet up with an oddball off the internet who clearly wanted to be more than just friends.

Dookie, meanwhile, was delighted that his campaign of mild harassment had worked. We arranged to meet in a pub near his office in Old Street, and I prepared myself for an evening of awkward chat. 

Except… It wasn’t awkward. At all.

Dookie had a huge, cute smile, was super easy to chat to, and was much funnier in real life than online. Within five minutes, I felt completely relaxed as we talked about our jobs, our past relationships, and the dogs we each planned to own one day. 

I told him about my ‘pizza theory’ of relationships, where you get to pick three essentials (the dough, tomato and cheese) that are deal breakers, and three ‘toppings’, which are attributes that aren’t essential, but would be quite nice. 

I’d already realised that Dookie was funny, kind and intelligent, which made him my perfect pizza base. 

When I nipped to the loo, I reflected on the fact that this non-date was, in fact, the best date I’d ever been on. Dookie was nothing like his online persona. Instead, he was pretty much everything I’d been looking for while I’d been busy dating the wrong men and studiously ignoring his pleas for a date.

I couldn’t stop smiling (Picture: Rosie Mullender)

When I returned from the bathroom, I slid into the seat next to his, because I am very smooth, and have all the best moves. And a few minutes later, we started kissing, like we were teenagers rather than fully grown adults in our mid-thirties who should know better.

When the barman told us, with infinite weariness, ‘Can you unstick yourselves from each other now, please?’ we scurried off into the night, laughing at this unexpected turn of events, and promising that next time we met, we’d go on a proper date.

The next morning, the girls at work were aghast (again) – ‘You SNOGGED Dookie3000?!’ – but I couldn’t stop smiling. 

Date 1.5, as we christened it, happened over a couple of huge steaks in Hawksmoor, and this time, it didn’t end with us necking on a grubby pub banquette. But it was every bit as fun as our non-date had been, and we both knew this was the start of something brilliant.

Nine years later, Dookie and I – real name Don, although I’ve never called him that – are living together in my dream house by the sea, engaged to be married, and planning to buy a dog together. 

But sometimes, even after all these years, I still shake my head in wonder that the guy I almost blocked on Twitter turned out to be the love of my life.

Rosie Mullender’s latest novel, Ghosted (£14.95, Sphere) is out now.

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An ex had become so annoyed by Dookie’s constant flirty tweets, he’d grabbed my phone while I was in the loo, and blocked him.