The diary of a Manchester Bridget Jones

After having spent my Easter with my mum continually asking me why I don’t have a boyfriend, and then trying to fix me up with her friends’ sons, waiters in cafés, even the medics she’s teaching, I couldn’t wait to come back to uni and return to the nag-free haven that is Manchester.

It started rough; on the first bus journey to uni, I fell up the stairs of the bus. Not disastrous, but I dropped my lunch. The lid of my Tupperware popped off and my chicken salad was no longer edible, but merely resembled roadkill. Everyone on the very cramped bus looked at me, and to cope with my mortification, I laughed manically and then snorted.

Yep, snorted. Like a pig.

I figured there was only one way to turn this day around: Go to yoga. There are two benefits to yoga. One, it’s exercise without actually getting tired, and two, there’s an incredibly hot guy in my class. Only one of two guys, admittedly, but the other is a 60-year-old man. In I waltzed, my mat casually slung over my shoulder and I set myself down doing some back stretches. As Hot Yoga Guy walked in, I gracefully inhaled and sat up straight for optimum boob pertness. The class started, I was on fire with my poses, I felt so zen I was on another planet. We were finishing up with a bit of downward facing dog and suddenly… it happened.

As I breathed out and relaxed my muscles, I farted.

The teacher stopped, the class looked up from their mats and Hot Yoga Guy started to laugh. I’m 99.9 per cent sure I can kiss any possibility of him being interested in me goodbye, and I’m going join a gym in Cornwall to get as far away from him as possible.

If you need me I’ll be hiding under a rock.