A spoke in the wheel

To everyone out there who believes it’s all about the first impression, you’re wrong. It actually all hangs in the second.

What am I on about? I am referring to the fact that you’ve already met the boy, been there, done that, got the t-shirt – phrase it how you want and steal whatever takes your fancy (it doesn’t necessarily have to be a t-shirt). It all comes down to the same thing: at some point, you are going to have to see him again and when you do, the objective is to appear as carefree and nonchalant as possible. The result? Usually a completely and utterly disastrous one.

I don’t really understand how it works out for normal people in second meetings because when it comes to me things just tend not to work in my favour.

Even my bike seems hell-bent on campaigning for my spinsterhood.

Picture the scene:  I’m cruising down Walton Street, the sun is out, the wind is blowing in my hair – it’s going to be a good day.  Enter stage-far-off-in-the-distance: Boy. The Boy. The Beautiful Boy. This is perfect; I can sail on by, casually smile and nod, maybe slow down briefly to say ‘Hey’ but the key thing is that I am rushing somewhere. It’s all very symbolic really – I am moving forward smoothly in my life with places to be and people to see.

Unfortunately, the bubble doesn’t take long to burst.  While I’ve been gazing smugly down the road in Beautiful Boy’s direction my front wheel and umbrella have been conspiring like two little school-children and, oh hey presto: over the handlebars I go in an all too abrupt and unexpected fashion.

Just brilliant. As I lie spread-eagled across the road, Beautiful Boy is so desperate to cross to the opposite side that he very nearly steps out in front of a fast-moving truck. Is it wrong that I almost wish he had?  At least then I wouldn’t have to worry about bumping into him a third time.

Related  Will hope ever spring eternal?

For all of you who are grievously worried for me in this traumatic moment, have no fear; two of the sweetest old gentlemen came to my eventual rescue and helped me scrape the remnants of my dignity off the tarmac. Chivalry isn’t dead yet… although, if the age of my two knights in shining armour is anything to go by, it probably will be soon.