Whether you love it, hate it or you're not particularly fussed by it, London Fashion Week is totally a big thing. So I reluctantly decided to get involved this season. And, lets be honest, why wouldn't I be into it, with such demanding questions like: "What on earth will I wear?" "But where will I sit?" "Have I lost enough weight to fit into a size zero, built for a child, outfit?"
I know I had enough online nouse to do little more than damage what little street cred I may have had with a few painfully unfunny lines. But what about people who may have shared more than they should have, long before they received that promotion back when they thought boardrooms were reserved for [insert expletive] and decided to tweet their feelings?
For the last ten years the structure of my day has been dictated by my busy bowels. I've always had a speedy metabolism, but these days my innards conduct themselves like an Olympic bobsleigh team. My daily schedule is controlled by my petulant paunch, and it's become necessary to assess every journey/task and appoint a risk factor.
University campuses are often described as 'bubbles'. Little hives of energy where you are safe and sheltered from the scary, outside world and nothing that bad really happens. However, this bubble-like environment provides the optimum conditions for some truly awkward situations to crop up - and they will.
I put my fist into the sock and pull it down my arm, unfortunately, because of the two large holes in the sock it looks a bit like my puppet is wearing a balaclava. It looks a bit like a Provisional I.R.A. sock puppet. How did this happen? I look at the Irish woman in front of me and swallow the Belfast accent.