I have an office on the third floor. It has a lock on the door which is handy for when I return from a run through the city streets and get back into my work things. I’m pretty serious about running, and I train in the right kit. I have painfully expensive trainers and a lot of exceptionally tight lycra which keeps everything in the right place. Getting it on requires an act of contortion rarely seen outside of Chinese circus schools, however that is nothing to the struggle I have peeling it off my knackered frame post-jog.
I have blasted a 7k and I feel fantastic as I sprint up the two flights of stairs back to my office (this has nothing to do with my training programme, but limits the lecherous glance of the bearded man with the mop). I fall into my office and cool down as I stretch, then peel up my white lycra top in an attempt to get it over my head. There must be a technique for getting off sports bras, but I always end up garrotted; arms lycra-lashed to my ears. Just as I am attempting to negotiate my face out of its stretchy prison, I hear an ominous sound at the door.
Someone is trying the handle.
In a sickening moment of realisation it dawns on me I didn’t flick the lock home. In a matter of seconds the opening door is going to reveal me clad only from the waist down, bare breasted, with my head and arms incarcerated in a lycra bra. This is not a good career move. I writhe manically to try and free my arms to at least cover my blushes, but I’m going nowhere.
Through the stretched white fabric I can just make out the door opening; a tall figure standing in the opening. With a Herculean strength brought on by acute embarrassment I hurl myself from the centre of the room in a move worthy of a slow-mo Olympic finish, breasts chasing each other from side to side like excited spaniels let off the lead. I launch myself against the door, slamming it shut and sinking to the floor in dismay and horror.
Oh. My. God. Who was that? Why didn’t he say anything? How much did he see? I am mortified that a colleague of mine has seen my pitiful bosoms in all their naked glory. They are not my finest attribute, particularly when framed by a faceless head and incarcerated arms. I want to call after him; “wait, I’ve got other bits that are much nicer – come back and see my bottom!”
I finally manage to rip an arm from the sports bra and pull the offending item from my head. I can never leave my office. I have absolutely not a clue who has just seen me semi-naked, and therefore the only solution is to remain here forever. I will live on dry cup-a-soups from my drawer and conduct all future business by e-mail only. It’s extreme, but it’s really the only way.