I walk into the café and inhale the aroma of warm croissants and coffee.

'What can I get you?' asks the barista. Well, a figure like yours would be a start. I mean, is it fair that someone should have a face that would launch a thousand cappuccinos and with a body to match?

I limit myself to asking for a skinny latte and sit down with an air of sophisticated nonchalance.

I wish. I realise that I put the wrong knickers on this morning so have a bad case of Visible Panty Line and am sporting mismatched earrings. I'm sure I saw her smirk as I tripped over the table leg.

Still, I'm not here to attract the barista. I'm here for him. Just thinking about him gives me butterflies the size of light aircraft. If you could only see how his biceps try to make a dash out of his shirt sleeves. How he orders a no eggs, no flour, no sugar muffin and makes it look normal.

He's the reason I religiously cleanse, tone and moisturise. Why I match my nail varnish to the colour of my tights. Why I'm here at all. I want to share everything with him, well, except the muffin perhaps. I prefer triple chocolate myself.

The door opens and there he is in all his rippling glory. It's been two weeks now. Two weeks of smouldering eye contact. Unfortunately, he was looking at the barista but I'm sure he'll notice me eventually.