I’m sitting in the company boardroom, listening to a presentation about something I don’t care about for a job I hate. The Power Point slides flash across the screen as the speaker drones on about departmental procedures. Like anyone gives a fuck. My brain is starting to shut down and evaporate through my ears.

My working life wasn’t supposed to be this dull. At junior school my friends and I would sit around the lunch table chattering excitedly about our future jobs when we grew up – writer, airline pilot, lap dancer. And that was just me. Why do we resign ourselves to crappy uninspiring jobs? Apart from the desperate need for money. But are dream jobs really that great after all?

I was standing at a bus stop in central London when I spotted David Tennant from Doctor Who. Being a fan of the show I decided to sidle up to him and say hello, maybe drop him my card - who knows where it might lead? My luck could be in!

I nudged my way through the queue and crept up beside David. I innocently asked him when the No. 21 was arriving. He turned and smiled, said he didn’t know but he was waiting for it too, have you been waiting long? Great, I had his attention! I’m talking to David Tennant from Doctor Who!

We began chatting about the weather and the news, my nerves at meeting The Doctor himself diminished. His voice sounded a lot deeper than it did on the telly, but people are often different in real life, I figured. 

What’s so funny about ginger-haired people? I’m one myself. When I was a child I though it was something to be proud of – old ladies would pat my head in the supermarket and coo about my lovely golden locks, in that way old ladies do.

My fellow playmates were not so kind and I was an obvious target for the school bully. I soon learned that being called ‘ginger twat’ was not a show of affection. There was something wrong with me!  Like a pasty-skinned mutant with a faulty chromosome, I was destined to spend my life bleaching my hair and hiding my true identity.

I’d like to say I was helping out a friend, doing it for charity, or it just looked like fun. But I can’t lie. During a spell ‘in-between’ careers, I worked as a temporary receptionist. It was a crap job but I needed the crap money that went with it.

Being a temp, I was given all the necessary training and attention required. “Desk’s over there, manual’s in the drawer,” rasped the burly office manager as she brushed me aside and slammed her office door. Great. Obviously I was going to be a valuable addition to the team.