Occupational Hazards For A Writer

IMG_5245 If someone asked me to identify the potential occupational hazards I might come up against during a standard day on the job as a freelance writer and communications consultant, I’d probably rattle off a bunch of inane things like writer’s cramp, short deadlines, self-imposed income goals, lack of sleep, poor posture, neck pain or carpal tunnel syndrome caused by repeatedly clicking on my mouse and using my keyboard.

What I wouldn’t dream of – not in a gazillion years – would be the potential for the following scenario to unfold.

But this is exactly what went down today on location with The Splendid Word.

I trotted off to my lunchtime meeting with a client – who just happens to work for a rather large organisation in town to whom we regularly consult.

We met and we talked words, just like we do every other Monday.

And when our meeting was over I got up to leave.

Normally (on any other Monday) I would simply walk off down the stairs and out into the sunshine to continue along merrily with my day.

But not this Monday.  Nooooooo.  This Monday had something very special in store for me.

Not your writer’s cramp, short deadline type of special either.  This one was a corker.

Whilst exchanging farewell pleasantries with the client (a member of the opposite sex, of course), I popped my bag over my head and to my sheer horror, the heavy leather strap dragged across the press studs of my ‘wrap-around’ skirt, ripping it clean open and off.

So there I was, standing on the management level of the building, full frontal to my client, in just my top, my high heels and my underwear.  Said skirt lying in a crumpled heap at my feet on the ground.

Mortifying.  Complete and utter.

For the both us…

Needless to say, I spent the rest of my day trying to regain my composure and my dignity – seeking solace from friends and loved ones who would tell me worse things could happen.

Of course they were right.  But in that moment at the top of that staircase, looking down at my pitiful skirt on the floor, I swear it couldn’t have got much worse.

And so, I figure I have two options if I am going to go anywhere near repairing my bruised and battered ego and eradicating the cherry red flush that has stained my cheeks since lunchtime.

The first is to die of complete and utter embarrassment and never set foot inside that organisation again.

And the second is to do the only thing I know best.  Turn it into a story and have the most enormous laugh at my own expense and invite you all to laugh along with me.