penelope pitstop, racing car, racing driver, secret skill, fantasy, other life

Do you ever fantasise about your secret skill?

Have you ever wondered what your secret skill is? You know like those friends who take up ceramics to calm their minds and then suddenly win the Turner prize or become the new Emma Bridgewater. Or you wonder about those artisan bakers popping up all over and how they discovered they were brilliant at making bread. And you wonder what your secret skill is, the one lying dormant and undiscovered, the one that will harness your exact ratio of energy/motor skills/imagination/strength. Like…

Cross-stitching

Maybe you are a secret feminist cross-stitcher, smashing the patriarchy one pastelly thread at a time. Except ouch is it supposed to prick my lady-fingers like this?

Hula hooping

Imagine the story: you just picked up that hula hoop at a kids party (hell) and it all just came together and now you are a global world record holding hooper with a jazzy stage name and even jazzier leggings.

Channel swimmer

Watch that 43-year-old woman covered in Vaseline and latex swim the channel like a navy seal. You are the Amelia Earhart of cross-channel swimming, an inspiration, writing books about the joys of sea swimming and being interviewed on the Good Morning sofa. Shame you can’t even do a length of front-crawl in a medium-sized pool.

Great British Baker

It’s an improbable story. Woman with no previous baking prowess suddenly becomes the flour whisperer. Her forte? Gingerbread houses. Her light had previously been hidden under a bushel because who bakes gingerbread houses? Well this lady can. Look at the detail, feel the snap. No one has ever had a less soggy bottom.

Performance poet

Yes you wrote limericks at school that made your parents howl with mirth and pride. But now, by chance, drunk, you find that you can rhyme, capture incisive political commentary and make people cry with your delivery. You are practically a rapper. And you may well win the Nobel Prize for literature.

Formula One Racing Driver

You are spotted by a racing scout (yes, they exist. Or they should) channelling your road rage into precision manoeuvring and, the next thing you know, you have diamonds bigger than Lewis Hamilton’s, a Damehood, and you’re doing Ted talks left right and centre. They are called things like ‘Petrol Passion and Peri-menopause’.

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