Five minutes later, I'm in my regular clothes again with my metaphorical tail back between my legs - I tucked it safely inside my jeans. Less chance of an accident that way!

What happened just now was such a humiliating experience - not that I should be surprised: bad luck trails me like an obsessive stalker. Whenever I think I've finally shaken it, it turns out it just got distracted temporarily - probably by chocolate - and it quickly catches up with me, even keener than before to ruin my life.

That poor guy, though . . . Tornado Skye snatched him up in her path and wrecked his life, too. I wince in humiliation as I push the main door of the restaurant open and head outside into the brisk April air. Only I would end up falling facefirst onto a guy's private parts, especially when he was right in the midst of a personal crisis.

You see, much like Liam Neeson's character in Taken, I have a special set of skills . . . But mine are very different from his, and you certainly shouldn't rely on me to rescue your kidnapped kid or bust a human trafficking ring wide open. 

Because my unique skill set involves . . . an incredible ability to fuck up monumentally and then somehow make a bad situation even worse. Honestly. If I thought it could potentially be a moneymaker, I would consider running modules in it.

But I doubt anyone would actually pay for those. And, if I'm perfectly honest, I probably couldn't actually teach anyone how to be this much of a disaster . . . Because I don't really know how I manage to do it myself. I just know it's always been the case.

And it's one of the reasons why I had to escape the small village in the Scottish Highlands where I spent the best part of my 25 years  . . . My reputation preceded me everywhere I went. I think people started to believe I was a bad luck charm; that if they spent too much time with me, I would coat them with my misfortune somehow.

And, honestly? I can't really blame them.

There was another big reason I decided to move to Glasgow, too. But I'm not going to go into that yet - you'll probably think I'm ridiculous. And I suspect you're already starting to draw that conclusion about me without adding any further madness into the mix.

What the hell am I going to do about money?  I wonder now, fingering the ten pound note George reluctantly handed over before ordering me never to darken the restaurant's doors again. (He has no need to worry - hot humiliation is still swirling through my entire being, and I suspect ever returning to the scene of the crime would cause a Pavlovian reaction for sure.) I need to find a job, and soon. Waitressing seemed like a good way to make money quickly, but I should have realised such a fast-paced environment would prove almost impossible for me to conquer.

You know how there's people in this world who thrive on pressure? I'm not part of that group. Not even on the fringes. I'm miles away, peeking around the corner, in hiding from them in case they try to recruit me. I'm not lazy, but I just can't really do anything in a hurry. I mean, it took me almost a year to make the decision to move to Glasgow. Although once I finally committed to the idea, I moved uncharacteristically quickly for a change. But my current living situation is definitely a case for why I shouldn't do anything under pressure.

I slump onto a bench in George Square, staring towards the City Chambers building. My vision blurs with sudden tears. I hate how easily I cry; it's as if the faucet behind my eyes is permanently ever-so-slightly loosened, and the tiniest of emotional knocks will immediately cause it to spring a leak. I doubt even a plumber could help with that. 

My previous employment experience is pretty much limited to working on a hotel reception desk . . . A job I fell into while at college, and one I didn't particularly enjoy. But I had held the position for so long that I somehow eventually became good at it. I don't think I would necessarily be that great working in that role anywhere else, though. A new hotel would be way outside of my comfort zone, unless they wanted to offer me a probation period of approximately five years!

"Hey, are you okay?" A female voice asks from somewhere close by. I'm only vaguely aware and ignore it, but a moment later, I feel my bench wobble slightly as someone settles themselves down a few feet away from me.

I guess she is talking to me then. I swallow a sigh and glance up, hoping my face isn't too blotchy.

The crimson-haired girl sitting beside me smiles encouragingly . . . And slightly cheekily. "Sorry for intruding on your thoughts -  but you look fucking miserable, and I'm having a rare Good Samaritan day so I thought I'd do my kind deed for the year," she shrugs.

"You're not in a cult, are you?" I ask suspiciously. "Is your next step going to be to ask if I've welcomed the love of Jesus into my life yet?"

She laughs. "Fuck no, I escaped the cult last month," she replies. "Kidding! I'm just trying for some classic Glasgow hospitality." She holds out a hand. "I'm Orlagh."

I can't help but smile back. To be honest, it's nice to see a friendly face after the day I've had, even if it is a stranger. And Orlagh looks trustworthy enough, even if she does apparently approach randoms in the street without any evident forethought. I don't think she's about to make off with my bag - and, if she does, then she's not going to find much more than an expired credit card, a Primark lipliner, and a hairbrush I haven't cleaned out in days, so good luck with that. "Skye," I reply, shaking her hand.

Of course, she starts singing The Skye Boat song, but stops as she immediately clocks my grimace. "Not the first time someone has launched into that, I suppose," she guesses correctly. "So . . . What's up? Why are you sitting here with watery eyes and a face like a slapped arse?"

And, for some reason, I find myself telling her everything. About my "escape" from the Highlands. The fact that my family and ex-boyfriend don't approve. And, of course, the piece de resistance - my disastrously embarrassing experience in the restaurant.

"Ouch." Orlagh cringes. "You really had your head in his lap?"

I nod sheepishly. "Yep. It was the most action I've had in a while, if I'm going to be brutally honest." And, much to my own surprise, suddenly I start to giggle. A genuine laugh, unlike Mr Cab Sav's earlier. I guess a problem shared really is a problem halved and all that. I suddenly find myself hoping that he has someone around who might help him see the funny side.

"So where are you staying?" My new confidant asks. "Do you have a place?"

"I'm staying with my cousin, for now. On her couch. It's not . . . The best. We don't know each other very well, and I don't think she likes me much. Her flat is teeny so I'm taking up way too much space."

Orlagh claps her hands together. "Ideal!" She announces. "Listen, I live in a flatshare with two other girls and one of them just announced she's moving out. We told our landlord we'd try to find a new tenant ourselves; would you be interested at all?"

"Um . . . I don't know," I say hesitantly. This is all very sudden and weird, and people back home did tell me that strange things can happen in Glasgow . . .  But I thought they meant bad strange things, and this seems too good to be true.

She nods understandingly. "I get it. You literally met me two minutes ago and I'm offering you a room in my flat . . . It sounds dodgy as fuck. I'll tell you what, I'll give you my number and you can think it over. And feel free to have a stalk of my social media too if you want to check I'm not a complete weirdo." After briefly rummaging through her pockets, she hands me a business card. "I'm a children's entertainer and I have a pretty good rep, so I promise I'm trustworthy."

"I'll give it some thought," I promise her, and I realise that I'm not even fobbing her off. Because this actually could be exactly what I need. "Where is the flat anyway?"

"Finnieston," she replies airily. Her sly smile tells me she knows this could be a game-changer, though. 

Because Finnieston is one of the trendier areas of Glasgow,  full of hip pubs and restaurants. It's exactly the kind of place I imagined myself hanging out in my many daydreams of moving to the city.  (In my head, I have clearly painted myself as the Carrie Bradshaw of Glasgow - albeit a slightly less annoying version who is almost completely incapable of walking in heels.) 

One particular bar there serves more than thirty different varieties of White Russians (although they've renamed them White Ukranians now). There's a restaurant called Fanny Trollopes. What a name, right? And . . . There's something called a pakora bar which - you guessed it! - offers many different kinds of pakora . . . Including a cheese version!

Can you tell I've done my research? 

And can you also tell that I don't get out much?

"Could I come and see the flat?" I find myself asking. The lure of Finnieston is apparently too irresistible.

"Of course!" Orlagh cheers. "You want to see it now? We can go get a cocktail at Lebowskis afterwards," she adds enticingly.  As if she somehow already knows that cocktails are my kryptonite.

Regardless of what happens with the flatshare, it looks like I may have found my first friend in Glasgow . . .