The rays of morning sunlight filtered through my dreams.
I stretched a long lazy feline stretch and slowly rolled over careful not to disturb the peacefully slumbering orange cat.
I looked over at the bright led light of the clock and then my heart stopped.
It was 08:30.
Never is all history has a shower, tooth-brushing, getting dressed ritual been completed in such haste.
I arrived at work on time on the dot of nine.
Only at 10:30 did someone think to mention that I had buttoned my shirt up incorrectly.
Honestly, they were lucky I came in underwear and matching shoes.
Clothing mishaps are my absolute worst.
I can’t wear white. Wearing white is a neon sigh to the universe to send birds to poop on me, cups of coffee to spontaneously levitate and spill their contents on me and other fates to terrible to mention.
I, like many women, have been the victim of brutal stabbing attacks by bra underwire.
I’ve arrived at work only to realise in the car park I was wearing my furry slippers and had to go to my mother’s to borrow a pair of more suitable footwear.
I went for an interview with a shirt buttoned up wrong (again) and got the job.
I even was pulled aside by police officers late one evening on an emergency chocolate run to the garage shop while wearing my nightie and bunny slippers.
Not some of my finest moments.
This is why I feel nothing a curious mix of sympathy and joy when a celebrity has a wardrobe mishap. It reminds me that they too are human and that I’m not the only one who occasionally puts a jersey on inside out.
At least mine don’t get plastered on every billboard across the world. The thought of seeing my backside blown up bigger than the Empire State fills me sick horror and a not inconsiderable desire to laugh uproariously.