Picture the scene . . .

You're a waitress.

But you're not, not really. You've never been a waitress before. You've slightly exaggerated your experience . . . No, that's not right: you've blatantly lied about your experience. Might as well be honest from the outset here, right?

You don't normally lie about these things, but you really need the money.

You've been given a day's trial in a fairly upmarket restaurant. Paid, thankfully.

And you're totally out of your depth.

In the space of an hour, you've managed to deliver the wrong dishes to three different tables. Knocked a candle over - it's okay, though: it only caused a minor fire! Tripped over your own feet at least twice.

You're perspiring heavily. You're harrassed. You're panicking.

And you've just poured a glass of red wine over a handsome man who is clearly smack-bang in the middle of a date.

Can you imagine it? Can you feel the humiliation?

I wonder if it's even a fraction of the mortification I'm currently experiencing. 

Because you haven't actually just opened one of those crazy old Choose Your Own Adventure stories in error, if that's what you were thinking. Instead, I've just allowed you to experience the tiniest snapshot of my own life. My life at this very moment!

I'm currently frozen, surveying the havoc I've accidentally created, as the tables surrounding the epicentre of this disaster hush and stare. I briefly imagine it would make a fabulous painting, should someone choose to capture this particular tableau in watercolour. One of my hands flying up to my open mouth as I recoil in horror; the horrified gazes on the faces of my audience; and the embarrassed (or is it angry?) shade of scarlet darkening the face of the dude I've just covered in one of Chile's finest Cabernet Savignons. His cheeks almost match the red of the aforementioned wine, which is rapidly soaking into his once crisp white shirt.

Is this the worst moment of my life?

I think it might just be.

Now, if this indeed was a CYOA book, this would be the point where your character would be prompted with a choice of what to do next, which may or may not have repercussions at some point later in the story. Let's say, in this case, these options are:

A) Make an immediate beeline for the door without looking back? 

OR

B) Somehow make things much worse?

The logical option, in this case, would be A, right?

Not for me, though. 

Time, which briefly stopped in order for the imaginary artist to capture the moment, starts once again, as I grab a napkin from the table and lurch closer to the man, frantic platitudes bubbling from my mouth. For no apparent reason other than desperately trying to right a wrong, I've decided to attempt to dab at his shirt. Why I think this is a good idea is beyond me - the shirt is already likely ruined beyond repair, and it's probably bad restaurant etiquette to touch a stranger in this way - but apparently I'm going in there anyway!

Everyone knows trying to fix a mistake in a panic is never a good idea, though. It's a little like trying to change an autocorrect in a text message as soon as you've hit the send button - you immediately notice you've said, "Hey Anus!" to your friend Angus, but then you end up calling him a bumhole three more times in your frenzied attempts to correct it.

Or is that just me? 

Anyway, back to the subject in hand. And a crash course (pun slightly intended) in how to make an awkward situation even worse in one easy step. Or mis-step, in my case.

Because I choose that moment to trip for a third time and land on my knees beside the man with one hand on his chest . . . and my face in his lap.

At this stage, I reckon it's probably safe to assume this is the end of my trial. There's no coming back from this.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to the man's crotch. "I'm so very sorry."

I raise my eyes to meet his, registering stormy dark green irises streaked with gold. He doesn't look happy. It's hardly surprising, really. It's unlikely that he expected his evening to involve being covered in wine while the waitress's face hovered inches from his genitals. I'm sure there's more specific places you would go for that type of service!

So I'm actually very confused when he starts to laugh.

I get the distinct impression he doesn't spend much time laughing. Not if this particular chuckle has anything to go by. Because it's harsh in tone, with a side of bitter.

"Don't worry about it," he says to me flatly, as I shamefacedly get to my feet. "It actually seems quite fitting."

My eyes narrow in confusion. But he's no longer looking at me; instead, he's glaring at his date. I really wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that stare; I'm merely on the peripheries of it, and yet it still has the potential to turn me to stone. "You really couldn't have planned this one better, could you, Violet?" He asks her, sarcasm evident in his voice.

Violet holds her hands up, the picture of innocence and thoroughly unaffected by his icy gaze. I briefly remember admiring her earlier when she first walked in because she looked like someone picked up a copy of a glossy magazine only for her to fall out of its pages and flutter down to earth amongst us mere mortals.  She's coiffed to perfection - her silky smooth auburn hair in direct contrast to what seems like a sweaty mess of spaghetti sprouting from the top of my head; and her eye make-up is so perfectly blended that it probably could be shortlisted for some sort of prestigious art award. In comparison, I'd currently be more in place lounging on the disgusting unmade bed that was somehow once shortlisted for the Turner Prize.

"Hey, that had nothing to do with me," she protests now. "I just wanted to tell you it's over between us. Whatever else just happened here was all her own work." She points one exquisitely classy nude talon in my direction.

Oh, holy crap, has Mr Cab Sav just been dumped? I'm sure the last thing he needed on top of that was a wine bath, courtesy of moi. I really know how to pick my moments.

"I'm so sorry," I repeat again, on auto-pilot, backing away from the argument. "I'll get you a new glass of red."

An arm grabs me before I can go any further, propelling me in an entirely different direction. "I'll get someone else to get you a new glass of wine," my clearly-soon-to-be-ex-boss George tells the man. "Let me just deal with this situation first, and I'll be right back." As he leads me away, he says under his breath: "So I'm assuming you were lying about your 'many extensive years of waitress experience', Skye?"

Yeah . . . I'm definitely not getting this job.