The colour drained out of my face, then rushed back to my cheeks as my heart thumped. I was almost certain I'd heard the sound of the Death Star tractor beam being disabled (you know the sound) while everything around me wobbled in and out in a teary kind of zoom-fade.
This is embarrassment. The fragile image we project of ourselves flickers out, the walls of self-constructed respectability come crashing down and the real us is awfully exposed.
This latest gaffe comes hot on the heels of the last. I was in a pub on Friday, meeting a friend with whom I catch up from time-to-time. Despite drinking only Coca Cola, I still managed to get disorientated in the gents. I washed my hands, held them under the hand-dryer and then found myself using them to push open what I thought was the exit door, only to walk straight into a man who was urinating into the toilet bowl.
"Terribly sorry," I said, switching imperceptibly into upper-class twit. For some reason, we become particularly and peculiarly British in embarrassing situations. I think that's why we like tea so much - it's the perfect ice-breaker to awkward conversation.
I've decided to do nothing about my email error. I don't want to make things worse - and it's not too bad. I don't think it will result in me clearing my desk anyway.
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