I let the (potential) man of my dreams slip through my fingers. Perhaps.
I was having one of those Sunday mornings, when you think, ‘ah, I’ll wear those really baggy jeans and a really old top with holes in it and some ancient shoes, but for some reason I’ll spray myself in perfume.’
You know – you just want to feel a little feminine despite the clothes? Touch of mascara and tinted lip-balm. Sorted.
In my defence, and with hindsight, I’d had an awful MS Saturday and MS sleep. No matter. It was too late.
Anyway. There I was, in my local corner store, buying up a pile of papers and one of those huge chocolate bars on offer.
A man appeared in my peripheral vision. I didn’t look – playing it cool. He leaned a little closer. I moved a little away (honestly – I have learnt nothing from reading all those ‘how to meet a man in your local store’ articles).
He spoke. ‘I love your perfume!’
Reader, I garbled. I cast a quick glance at the very tall, very handsome, very without-a-wedding-ring man standing next to me with a takeaway coffee in his hand. From my favourite coffee shop.
‘Ah. Ta, mate. Got it from Aldi.’
Did I just say that? Mate?
It got worse. I rummaged in my bag and actually pulled out the bottle to show him.
I even said, ‘Under a fiver! How’s that for a bargain!’
He looked a little scared, paid for his newspaper and left.
I went home and had a very serious talk with myself.
Story of my life.
p.s. If you see this man – over six feet, black coat, Observer newpaper, bit of a stubble, nice boots – let me know …