Comment: Embarrassment has never looked so good

Sunday 02 December 2018

Everyone's favourite clumsy socialite is on yet another ill-fated quest towards the romantic comedy happy ending she's always wanted, but a wheatgrass and flaxseed juice might just stand in her way...

After months of putting on a chase, Fenella has finally scored an appointment with the Doctor, but will he live up to her wildest dreams?

Dear Diary...

Once again, I am writing to you from my immaculately tidy and aesthetically pleasing hovel of shame (even my pit of despair has Egyptian Cotton, who do you take me for?) - and yes, it is as disastrous as it sounds.

All I want is for the universe to recognise I’m a good person, and therefore I deserve killer abs, an impressive following on social media and an attractive husband who is totally devoted to me... is that SOOO much to ask? As I write these words, I’m reclining in my silk pyjamas (no expense spared) hoping that the answers to all my problems are at the bottom of this glass of red wine. 

Pictured: "I’m reclining in my silk pyjamas (no expense spared) hoping that the answers to all my problems are at the bottom of this glass of red wine." 

I was just minding my own business, sucking up the dregs of the gross health juice I had just powered through (why do I pay hipsters £8.50 to make me hate my own mouth?) when it happened. The man of my dreams was stood right in front of me in the street.

I had imagined this moment over and over in my head, and none of those imaginings involved me choking on my final sip of wheatgrass and flaxseed sap. But alas, Dearest Diary, that is exactly what happened. There I was, doubled over in the street, gasping for breath whilst the best-looking human watched on, unsure whether to help or just leave me to my antioxidant fate.

Tears were running down my face, snot was pouring out my nose, and it was safe to say I had never looked lovelier. When I eventually resumed normal breathing after about a fortnight of coughing up my guts in a public place, I looked up at Dr. Dreamboat and realised there was nothing I could say now that would redeem any iota of grace or dignity.

Pictured: The only thing that stands between Fenella and the man of her dreams is a wheatgrass and flaxseed juice. (Ben Ronayne)

He smiled at me – oh god, he thinks I’m a joke. He’s going to laugh about me at his fancy dinner parties with other paediatricians who are called things like Craig and Karen. They’ll all guffaw at this pathetic non-doctor, who hasn’t even mastered drinking from a straw.

“Oh dear...”

Oh dear? Ohgodohgodohgod that’s not good. If only the wheatgrass had killed me – then I wouldn’t have to have this conversation. I smiled weakly at him and wiped some of the snot away from my face in a feeble attempt to rescue my makeup from the deluge. And then something utterly unprecedented, completely unexpected and absolutely unbe-bloody-lieveable happened. 

Dr. Dreamboat took his perfect hand and tucked my hair behind my ear.

“Oh dear, what are we going to do with you?” 

SWOON. Just because the juice hadn’t killed me, didn’t mean this wouldn’t. 

Pictured: Could this be the first signs of the fairytale ending Fenella has always imagined for herself?

“Well, for starters you could get me a tissue.”

Sometimes, I surprise myself with how ludicrously hilarious I am. Against all the odds I had turned this truly devastating situation right around. I felt like I had been transported to a parallel universe where making a total fool of yourself was endearing, and men actually do that hair tucking thing.

I was off-beat and quirky (snot aside), he was charismatic and successful – we had all the makings of a romantic comedy right here. Where are the cameras?

“I would ask if I could buy you a drink, but maybe that’s the last thing you want right now...”

Feigning total easy-breezy-casualness (which is very hard to do after you have just wheezed in front of someone), I agreed to go for a drink with him. This was it. The story we’d tell our grandchildren. 

We rocked up to a bar – the kind that has exposed concrete to make it look utilitarian and accessible, but all it serves is overpriced gins and condescension – and I made a swift dash to the toilet to assess the damage. 

Pictured: "All it serves is overpriced gins and condescension".

Freshly lip glossed and after a DIY blow-out with the hand-dryer, I was back to my former glory. Dreamboat had finally decided which tonic to pair with his fancy gin and I opted for a mimosa (it was still daytime – even I have my limits). I insisted on paying for my drink and focused on not waterboarding myself with it. 

Everything was going more or less smoothly. I mean, some of my jokes weren’t landing, and he occasionally didn’t realise I was being sarcastic when I definitely was. This was unsettling because my sarcasm is my superpower – without it I’m just a whiny posh girl with great hair, but no self-awareness.

I tried really hard to pay attention to his blow-by-blow account of the ski season he did last year, but that was difficult considering no one has ever found conversations about skiing interesting. 

I was being too fussy. It was going fine. Absolutely fine. And he was still dreamy. So everything was good, right? Right?

Even I wasn’t convincing myself. What was happening? This is the man I’ve been crushing on for months, and here he was for the taking, and it was like the spark was already fizzling out. He was sweet, sure. Charming, yes. Good looking, absolute top marks. But maybe that’s all he was...

Pictured: Smart, successful and so far, single, will Fenella ever catch a break? (Ben Ronayne)

What is wrong with me? I just need to give him half a chance, I told myself, tuning back into his “hilarious” conversation about him and the “boys” having a “baller” in the “chalet”. 

Sigh.

He walked me home after a few more mimosas (I definitely needed them to get through that ski season) and we got to my door. The moment of truth. He leaned in and kissed me. 

Oh, sweet lord. I can’t believe it. This drop-dead gorgeous man who has been blessed with the face and body of a demi-god is the worst kisser I’ve ever had the misfortune to snog. Who on this good earth thinks it’s acceptable to lead with the tongue? 

This isn’t how the movie is supposed to go – can I have a word with the writer please? Cue pyjamas, red wine and a cloth to dry my mouth...

Devastated, disappointed but ever yours,

Fenella xxx 

This article originally appeared in Connect magazine. Read it in full by clicking here.