The fashion-forward, feisty (and a little fickle) world of St. Helier's very own Carrie Bradshaw is no doubt envied by most.
But the diary entries of a big fish in a very small pond will go down in history as proof that even Fenella Bond has bad days.
This month, Fenella is more lovesick than ever as she navigates the tumultuous landscape of an unrequited ‘friend crush’…
“We have to stop meeting like this; you, silent and (I'm presuming) judgmental; me, desperate, pining over some stranger and most definitely always talking about myself. One of these days I will ask you how you're doing, but I'm afraid that today is not that day.
Anyway - BACK TO ME!
Pictured: "Anyway... back to me!"
I've found myself in yet another extraordinary predicament which, of late, I could rather do without - I have stuff to do, you know! It all started in quite familiar territory... There I was (sporting a rather debonair silk cravat) daydreaming about someone most definitely out of my league.
I've never felt like this about anyone before. They probably have never noticed me. All I can see when I close my eyes is their perfect hair, falling on perfect shoulders, their style and that laugh. UGH. Why am I always doing this to myself? It's like I'm addicted to heartbreak.
Inconsolable, I resorted to my horoscope - desperate times call for desperate measures - but the advice "burn it all down and start again" didn't quite seem to be applicable in the circumstances. Maybe I'm just being pedantic (classic Virgo) but I don't see how resorting to arson will resolve my conundrum. In fact, and I might be underestimating my criminal abilities here, but I reckon that kind of drastic action will land me with a whole set of new problems and God forbid I actually have to deal with anything genuinely hard going or with tangibly difficult consequences.
Pictured: In a moment of desperation, Fenella consulted the stars...
I'll just stick to flippant, ultimately inconsequential social disasters of my own making, ta.
I know how all of this sounds and trust me, if a friend was telling me all of this - I would be rolling my eyes so hard I'd risk getting them stuck in the back of my head - but I swear it's different this time.
I fully recognise that I have a penchant for the dramatique (LIFE HACK: if you say it in French it sounds chic and interesting and not desperately, desperately sad.) I'm suffering once again with a bad bout of unrequited love (nothing new there then) but this time it's not some dopy boy I'm chasing after...
I'm Fenella Bond, and I have a serious friend crush. (The first step is admitting you have a problem). Now, I know I'm a drama junkie, but I will rest at nothing until friend crushes are universally recognised as being equally if not more devastating as romantic crushes. It's like fancying someone from afar - embarrassing, clumsy, painful - but this time there's a friendship at stake. Way more important!!
Introducing Isabelle Vivienne. Yes, she has a first name for a surname and clearly that's the level of cool we all aspire to. She's effortlessly elegant. No makeup and she's still an absolute bombshell. Like a French movie star, I imagine she just rolls out of bed, slips on something that no one else would dream of carrying off, and steps out into the sunshine.
Pictured: "I will rest at nothing until friend crushes are universally recognised as being equally if not more devastating as romantic crushes!"
Everyone hangs on her every word and the way she simultaneously manages to charm and mock all she meets is a total mystery to me. So cutting is her wit that she can totally call out everything problematic about someone's entire personality and they're there just laughing along with her as if nothing's happening. It's artful.
I've witnessed her telling literal strangers they need therapy within minutes of meeting them. Devastating scenes.
I would give anything for her to diagnose my issues in a public place. Sigh. I've only met Isabelle Vivienne (we're not yet on a first-name basis) twice. The first was at the races, when I got my stiletto stuck in a cow pat and the second was at a nightclub opening when I had about seven too many tequilas and started ugly crying in the girls' loos. It's safe to say I'm punching way above my weight with this friend crush. I am fully aware.
Cut to: the high street. I'm making like Ariana Grande - "retail therapy my new addiction" - swanning down the high street in my new favourite silk culottes and sun hat when I see her. Isabelle Vivienne. She's looking extraordinary (as per) and she's coming this way! This is my chance to be nonchalant but friendly. I'm going to go for the slight smile and head nod you bestow on those you're not ready to have a full blown conversation with. I'm making my way out of a shop directly into her line of vision. Here goes nothing...
I'm walking, I'm walking, I'm walking and I flash her my best smile, nod my head (perhaps a bit too wildly) and I boldly add in a "hey, you!" for good measure. But she's got her wireless earphones in and she's looking elsewhere. She doesn't see me and she just carries straight on.
Pictured: "Retail therapy my new addiction" - Ari would be proud!
It's at this point that my legs take on a mind of their own. I do an illegal U-turn right in the middle of the street and I'm following her. Why am I following her? I'm putting on quite a pace. My mind is most definitely telling me no, but my body is determined.
I'm essentially stalking this poor woman now, in hot pursuit of her as if she's stolen my handbag. I start to sweat, thinking it would be weirder if I did yet another about turn, abandoning my course at this point. I'm following her, I'm following her and oh no she's going into a shop.
This is my chance, I can just carry on straight ahead, keep my weird obsession with this glamorous stranger a complete secret, but do my feet listen to my only chance to escape this situation with my dignity in tact? Of course not. I'm directly behind her as she enters the boutique. But she appears to have forgotten something or changed her mind because now it's her doing a total 180, only to find a manic looking me nose-to-nose with her, panic shouting: "Isabelle! Hey! Let's be friends!" in a tone that did not convincingly communicate even a shred of sanity.
She blinks. Bewildered (naturally) and staring blankly into the face of her exceedingly unsubtle stalker.
On second thoughts, perhaps arson would have been a better course of action...
Yours most clumsily,
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