Yesterday I got glammed up in my finest work attire and went to a business meeting in London. Afterwards we went to tea at the Ritz. It’s a bit passé to have tea at the Ritz, I know, but going there, I felt so… so like me. Not someone’s mother, not someone’s wife, not someone’s daughter, sister, aunt or even friend. I was just me, going about my own business like millions of others in the big, bad city. No-one recognised me, no-one stopped to ask me if the children were well, no-one wanted anything from me. (Except the obsequious waiter who might have been hitting on me. But it’s been so long, I couldn’t really tell for sure.)
Turns out I am still inside me somewhere.
Disclaimer: this post was written for the benefit of the New York Times. Wouldn’t want to disappoint them afterall.
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