Being a glorious, Easter Saturday morning, I have just been out for a stroll. I was wearing a red jumper and black jeans with baseball boots for the sake of comfort. My hair was clean and tidy enough and styled into my usual 'can't do bugger all else with it' bob. Yes, I was wearing make-up but it was understated and unlikely to cause a stir in any circles, let alone the ones I was promenading in. I will admit to optimistically wearing sunglasses but I was by no means the only one. We are, after all, terribly cosmopolitan here in Cambridge.
'Yeah, and...?' you're thinking at me. 'Well, precisely...' I reply.
Because I can't have been out for more than 5 minutes before I encountered a strange man - balding, a bit tatty, late middle aged and unlikely to ever have been described a looker - who looked at me with unambiguous disapproval and abhorrence. And it wasn't fleeting either, it built up the closer he got to me. He looked me up and down, jerking his head back and forth like a mean faced Pez sweet dispenser and kept it up right to the point of us passing each other by. The more he looked at me, the angrier I made him. All I could do was look back at him with correspondingly growing surprise.
So for the rest of my walk I spent too much time looking at other people's faces to see if I inspired the same reaction. I didn't I'm happy to say, and was incredibly thankful for it. This is what it must feel like being Jamie Oliver.