Old School

I was asked by my old school to give a talk to the year 12 girls at their valedictory dinner. And yes, I have absolutely no qualifications in public speaking. But, naturally, being totally flattered, I accepted.

So, the night of the dinner and my partner and I arrive at the exclusive ladies club at the posh end of town. I strode in feeling fairly confident and found myself in a 1980s time warp with lots of fake pale green and pink plants and, I kid you not, a mock garden conservatory.  I sized up the crowd and my confidence evaporated. Aside from the students, there were a lot of really conservative, really important-looking and probably really rich people here.

My outfit of gold (yes, GOLD!) Rock ‘n Republic Victoria Beckham jeans with the signature crystal crowns on the pockets, ridiculously high, jewelled platform sling-backs and Ricochet black jacket suddenly looks a tad out of place amongst this sea of navy blue and pearls.  But no need to panic: everyone ignored us.

‘So, why did they ask you to speak?’ asks my supportive partner, as we stand alone with a clear radius of a couple of meters. ‘Couldn’t they get anyone else?’

Yes, thank you for that. Thank you.

We’re seated at a table with staff (who were very friendly – they're probably trained to smell panic) and a few parents. One starts grilling me.

‘Have you got a daughter at school?’ No.

‘Why are you here?’ I’m speaking.

‘What about?’ Stuff.

‘Are you an Olympian?’ (Seriously, if you know me, you know just how frickin funny that is!!!) No.

The conversation turns to running.

‘Have you run the New York Marathon?’ No.

‘Where do you run?’ At home, on the treadmill, in the study….

He was eventually put out of his misery and was gracious enough to say well done.