The Shambolic Life of Penny Plaine

The Shambolic Life of Penny Plaine

Chapter One

A famous man once said; never write a line that you would be ashamed to hear at your own funeral. And it sounds a lovely motto to have, but the fact is that I am deeply ashamed of some of the events, thoughts and feelings that I am committing to these pages. So I will leave that particular mantra to the scholars of this world, something I will never ever be. So here goes.

 Monday should have started well. I planned everything the night before. I ironed two outfit choices, just in case one looked repulsive, washed my hair, shaved my under arms, fake tanned, face masked and just about every beauty treatment a woman can possibly do to herself on a Sunday night. Setting off the next morning, the day looked promising. Little beams of sunshine streamed from behind the chimney tops, a delicate breeze ruffled my ballerina skirt, until I crossed over to the Chelsea side of the bridge and the rain started. Cascading into my French Soles and dribbling down my spine. In two minutes, I was less Audrey Hepburn and more Bride of Frankenstein.

I had told myself quite loudly and clearly that I was not, never ever again going to visit the coffee shop, that it was a waste of money, a useless indulgence and a ridiculously expensive habit with the costs of living in Central London. But this was a Monday morning and I wanted caffeine. Now.

I am a self confessed coffee shop stalker. I find one I like, visit it obsessively until we reach first name terms, then feel ashamed of my behaviour and abruptly stop. This pattern repeats itself every six months or so. But this place is special.

 The bell jangled loudly announcing my arrival to the room full of caffeine deprived business men in suits, waiting like vultures. The queue of people stared as I burst through the door in a cloud of raindrops. Strands of sodden hair impeded my view and I could feel an errant bra strap making its way down my arm. I love English summers!

 “Next please.”

 And there he was! The most beautiful man in South West London. The man for whom I put on an extra coat of mascara in the mornings. For whom I threw vast amounts of change into the Tips jar on the vague hope that he might think of me as the kindest, most generous woman he had ever met. For whom I had blown a whole month’s rent on a pair of YSL Tribute pumps, in case he ever asked me on a date. For whom-

 “Oh morning” His eyes creased up with a smile of recognition.

 “Hi!” I squeaked, conscious that the rain had smudged the 50’s siren eye makeup into 90’s grunge. Waterproof mascara? I don’t think so!

 “The usual?”

 Oh dear, this was bad, was I that predictable? Surely he couldn’t be attracted to me when I was so unimaginative with my coffee choices. What would Audrey choose?

 “No. Filter coffee please black.” I stuttered. Sophisticated, mysterious. It would taste like dynamite on my latte loving lips, but never mind.

 “£2.20. Take a seat, we’ll bring it over.”

 “Thanks.” I smiled and held his gaze for just a second too long, the way it tells you to in dating advice books. I went over to the place he had indicated and took a seat, heart beating under my silk sweater.

 Reading this you probably think I am very sad. Some middle aged spinster with seventeen cats, who has never had a chance to meet a man or some stalker who has obsessive loves for ITV male newsreaders or Terry Nutkins from the Really Wild Show. Susanna says I’m too busy to meet men in the real world and I should try dating websites, but I just can’t bring myself to. She currently has three men on the go. Cockney Sam who is an insanely private teacher. He refuses to divulge any information about his private life at all and won’t even tell her how old he is. Stockbroker Elliot who defines the word Charmer, but won’t let her stay over, and Scottish Rich who can’t keep his hands to himself. I don’t know how she finds the time.