I tripped over my heels and fell into writing by accident. Picture the scene…
In a curry house somewhere off Brick Lane, London, a group of people sit at a table devouring poppadoms. They’re your average motley crew of friends of friends who don’t want to go home when the pub closes.
Me (swaying slightly due to excess wine): I’m Angela.
Editor: Can you pass the Mango Chutney?
Me: What do you do?
Editor: I’m the editor of [insert name of a paper based in a financial district of London].
Me: I read that! I loved the stuff you did on the Flaming Ferraris. BUT you don’t have any women on your paper. Or at least not any visible ones. This is the naughties, women are a huge force in the financial sector. YOU NEED MORE WOMEN. (Repeat, drunkenly, ad infinitum.)
The next morning, while looking in her handbag for paracetamol, Angela finds the editor’s business card. On the back it reads: 350 words by Monday.*
*Some dramatic licence and less alcohol were used in the re-telling of these events. To be honest it’s all a bit fuzzy.