I’m standing in the queue in Starbucks, waiting for my turn with the frappachino and herbal tea requests. I’m here for a meeting. In less than two hours I’ll be at another meeting with an MP – a former Home Office Minister who knows his stuff – and I’m exhausted.
I jolted awake at four this morning from another horrendous nightmare. My job involves thinking about human trafficking and exploitation day in day out and unfortunately this is not without its side effects.
I also have another minor problem on my hands. At 11am this morning I realised there was a small hole in my skirt. Unfortunately this hole is located directly over the butt area. I quite like my bum as it is, but my skirts do have to stretch a little to fit and tend to give way at inconvenient moments – for example, during 11am meetings with lots of men. (This is me we’re talking about – I mean, my skirt was never going to wait for an all-girl slumber party.)
I quickly excused myself from the manly meeting (walking backwards out of the room as normally as possible) and rushed to my colleague, Gemma, to ask for her opinion. Is the hole noticeable? Can I possibly get away with it for a whole 30 minutes in the presence of an esteemed politician? Her contorted expression, trying to hold back a pained smirk, confirmed the answer as a firm NO. Five minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom with a safety pin holding my skirt together. Unfortunately this was not the world’s most sturdy piece of metal and within minutes I had an undone pin protruding out of my bottom, ready to puncture anyone who got too close.
So here I stand in Starbucks – exhausted, slightly traumatised, with a safety pin sticking outta my butt. If I’m looking for a sign that something in my life has got to change, this is it.