Morning:
14°c
We all know a London superwoman. Immaculately coiffed, she's been up since 4am playing tennis and translating a few Russian short stories. By the time you reach the office (foul of temper, brushing sleep out of your eyes), she's made organic packed lunches for four, delivered the children to the Steiner School and made some Very Important Calls.
How do they do it? What are the secrets of women who are groomed and have lived a full life by 8am?
I only have myself to get out of the front door. But each morning it falls apart. It's as if my brain has been stolen in the night by aliens. Where are my clothes? Why does nothing fit? Oh, God, I'm a week behind on the newspapers.
Tension mounts. Clean teeth. Lenses. Thought for the Day. Hurrah, still on target for train. Then - horrified glance in mirror - what has happened to my hair? When I went to bed it was on the right way up. Now it's the wig from hell.
Most days I arrive sweating at the office at 10.30am and give the apologetic grimace that says: "Sorry, I live in south London. It's a war zone." And try not to notice that the temp who commutes in from Norfolk has been at her desk for hours.
But, today, dear reader, is different. New York hairdresser Paul Labrecque is in town to launch his new range of products at Selfridges and is offering me a hair masterclass at 8am. This is unbelievably thrilling. Manhattan's hottest colourist, Paul, does the Olsen twins, Hilary Swank and Anne Hathaway.
A car picks me up from the station. I can afford to look like Neanderthal woman because a makeover awaits. As I enter Paul's "salon" in a smart SWI apartment block, I can smell good coffee. There are girl-size muffins.
The stereo is belting out show tunes. Halfway through an anecdote about meeting Eartha Kitt, Paul greets me and says: "Hello, girlfriend, I like the way you're working your jewellery."
I am in heaven. A handsome gay man who totally gets me is about to rescue my hair. He will restore lustre and vitality to the lifeless wig. I'm beginning to see how this Superwoman thing works.
By 8.30am the chauffeur has delivered me to the office. My colleagues fall over in shock. I am dressed. Groomed. On time. Everything seems possible. But by 11am, I am in despair. I've lived half a life and it still isn't lunchtime. By 4pm, I'm comatose. Three more hours and I can go to bed.
I have the best hair in town. And no bloody stamina. Nicola Horlick, I salute you. Thank God I could never afford to keep this up.
