The big spill
Morning coffee. A lunchtime sweetcorn chowder. Networking mini lemon meringue tart, wobbly and generally deeply unstable canapé that no one else is eating, because why would you take the risk you insane person? There’s nothing like passing through your day like a dirty tablecloth. Laugh it off. Point it out. Make a feature of it. Everybody splurts.
You’ve legged it out of the house in trainers, and packed your heels for the BIG meeting. You realise when you get to work that you’ve grabbed one blue and one black. Different heel heights. One has a buckle. One is suede. On NO ACCOUNT put them on. Athleisure is still vaguely a trend. Odd shoes are just odd. The more casual you dress, the more powerful you look. We tell ourselves.
Sweat happens. It could happen again any moment. And we’ll all be drenched. And crying in the dry cleaners… “Can you save it?” But the patch is here to stay. What are you going to do? Wear a vest? As if. Just make sure you are the one who draws attention to it. “Look at my amazing sweat patches.”
Listen there are some who are born late, others have lateness thrust upon them. Sometimes through a hellish maelstrom of tube, phone call, hangover, pets, parents, a terrible concertina of events means you are late. You are late. Apologise. You are late. I know it’s awful. Sorry. Just say sorry. Sorry is elegant.
The sex wander
Is ‘What are you thinking about?’ the worst question in the world? Don’t say, “I am thinking about the fact that I need to book a pedicure/haven’t eaten any crisps for a while/I need to buy some trainer socks.” Just say, “You.” Cool as…