There is a scenario that happens an awful lot to me. I sort of love it and loathe it, because it triggers two very specific parts of my Gemini character. I love it because it ignites my competitive, quiz-loving, answer-smashing, confident Frenchie persona. I loathe it because the British half of me wants the floor to open up and swallow me in, my skin is smothered in prickly cringe and every orifice on my body sucks itself inwards into a contorted scrunchy ball of awkwardness.
This is the first part of the scenario: I’m introduced to a new person by a mutual pal and they say “this is Alice, she’s a perfume expert and knows everything about fragrance!!!” [groan. I really don’t.]
This is the second part: Immediately, and I’m not kidding here, IMMEDIATELY, before even shaking my hand or sharing their own name, they do The Thing.
The Thing. The Thing. Goddammit they’re doing The Thing.
Their eyes open just a little too wide, with enough manic white on show to indicate mild madness and that wild excitement of potentially winning something, as if I’m in court and they’re about to smack me down with case-cracking evidence.
The head turns to the side, like a fricking possessed barn owl rotating its skull 180 degrees.
A full side of a bare neck is thrust in my direction. Ligaments, throbbing arteries, stretched muscles and all. They’ve pulled down their collar for extra surface area. Am I Edward Cullen? Am I being offered a pulsating blood-pumped vein as a vampiric canapé? Did I forget to file my teeth down? No, no. They’re doing The Thing.
Here it comes: “Go on, go on, smell me. SMELL ME!!!!!”