What I imagined: I kick open the batwing saloon doors and everyone feels that, profoundly. “Roxanne” by The Police is playing which makes complete sense now that I have entered. The whole bar looks up from their conversations… I take no notice. I need a drink.

Reality: The bar door is a push not a pull, and I make quite a scene trying to open it.

What I imagined: A thin cigarette drapes from my sultry lip-sticked mouth. A crowd of men rush to light it, falling over themselves in the process. In all the commotion, one man has stabbed another. This is simply the effect I have on men. A thread of grey smoke curls up towards the ceiling and hangs there.

Reality: “You can’t vape in here,” shouts the barman from across the room.

What I imagined: I literally glide across the mahogany floor towards the mahogany bar. The bartender winks at me.

“Here’s trouble,” he says. A cool casual friendship has formed between me and Elmo, which is both the barman’s name and the name of the bar.

Reality: “How old are you?” says the barman, whose name is Paul. “I’m going to have to see your ID.” I tell him I’ve left it at home. He calls me a stupid loser.

What I imagined: “The usual,” I coo.

“Coming right up,” Elmo says, propping up the bottle of liquor with his bare, muscular shoulder. A perfect golden stream cascades into a crystal glass; the sound of ice crackling syncopates with the percussion of “Roxanne,” still playing. He slides the drink across the counter with too much force. It reaches the end of the bar and lingers on the edge for a moment before tipping off. The whole room watches, aghast, as the glass topples slow-motion style towards the floor. Right in the nick of time I catch the glass with my tiny, stilettoed foot, letting it rest there for a moment before performing a bicycle kick that displays both my athleticism and my womanly hips. It lands back in my perfectly manicured hands. I am both elegant and in possession of unshakeable hand-eye coordination.

“You need to work on your aim, Elmy,” I say. He apologizes, but it’s all in good spirits.

Reality: I order a Fanta.

What I imagined: Troy Bolton from High School Musical plays darts with Zack and Cody and Barack Obama (these are the only people worth knowing). They invite me to play. In lieu of a dart I raise an old timey pistol and shoot three perfect bullseyes.

“That’s my kind of woman,” says Cody, who tries to kiss me—but I pull away. “In your dreams,” I whisper in another coo. Zack and Barrack laugh enviously.

Reality: I trip over someone’s child on my way to the dart board.

What I imagined: The opening chord of Garry Rafferty’s “Right Down the Line” hums from the jukebox.

“I love this song,” I say, cooing once more. I am impelled to dance.

Reality: I ask to play a song on the speaker. The bartender tells me I can connect my phone if I really want, but makes it clear it’s a major hassle. I insist. I queue “Right Down the Line” by Garry Rafferty. An advert for State Farm life insurance plays way too loud across the room. I haven’t paid my Spotify subscription this month. Everyone boos me off the music, calling me more names in the process. I am humiliated.

What I imagined: A man approaches me. He’s been watching me dance. He is Simon Cowell and he’s going to make me the next best thing. I gracefully decline as I’m about to attend Harvard, where I will pursue a BA in Rock Climbing.

“You’re a mystery,” he tells me. I shrug.

Reality: Someone asks if I’m feeling okay. I tell him I am dancing. He laughs in my face. Calls me a loser.

What I imagined: Barack is fighting Cody outside because of the whole kiss thing. Zack tells me he’ll miss me when I’m at Harvard but understands my life-long passion for scaling big rocks.

“Think of me when you summit Kilimanjaro,” he cries. I assure him I will not, as I put a third cigarette out on his chest. He thanks me.

Elmo hurls another drink across the room which I literally catch with my brain. Simon Cowell jots this down in a notebook.

Reality: A couple is making out against me. They spill a two-pint glass of beer onto my lap. It looks as though I have wet myself. I have wet myself. I decide to call it a night. The whole bar chants “pissy-pants” in unison as I struggle with the door.