Exasperdating | Victoriana Fella

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Exasperdating | Victoriana Fella

Height: 6’1″
Build: Broad
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Job: Architect/Interior Designer

So there I am, waiting anxiously for my name to be called. I’m doing everything I can to ignore the mosquito-like high-pitched buzz emanating from the consulting room (read as torture chamber). In a desperate bid to try and take my mind off things, I reach out and grab one of the well-thumbed glossies on the coffee table. Result! It’s OK! Magazine. And, as we all know, lightweight celebrity fluff is the perfect antidote to the terror that is the dentist’s chair. 

Open wide...

Open wide…

What’s that got to do with a date? Well, as I was flicking through said mag, my eyes suddenly shot to a picture of a bloke I thought I knew. But just who was he? And what the hell was he doing in a celeb rag? So with one eyebrow arched quizzically à la Inspector Clouseau, I went on the hunt for clues.

First off, the caption. No bells ringing there. While his name wasn’t beige, it certainly wasn’t standout. So I carried on, scanning the article proper. An architect slash interior designer. Hmm, doesn’t narrow things down as I’ve known a few of those in my time. But hold up! Currently working for a very high-profile member of the royal family. Now, you’d have thought a nugget of info like that would have sparked some kind of memory but, alas, nothing.

“Monsieur Torres?” It was my turn for the chair. Clearly my brain was still running a Ctrl+F search because the penny dropped just as I was invited to open wide.

I’d gone on a date with this chap about five years ago. He was fairly well spoken (not to mention well off) and was, to my mind, just a stumble from plummeting headfirst into the ravine of posh. I remember he invited me over for dinner at his place one night. His gaff was decorated in what I call ‘try-hard Victoriana’ – a deer-stalker nonchalantly placed here, a pile of dusty old books stacked casually-on-purpose there.

Suffice to say, we didn’t go beyond dinner as it was clear the class gap between us was just too great. I mean, the idea of him dancing manically to Morrisey at Duckie was just as at odds as the notion of me genuflecting to some Duke and Duchess on a pheasant shoot – which seems to be exactly what he’s doing right now. Damnation. If only I’d played my cards right – I could be hanging with Wills and Harry right now. More so Harry, I think…

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