I dreamt I was at some sort of posh do - an opening, or maybe a race - and everyone was dolled up to the nines. Footballer’s wives level of satin, towering heels, big hair, make-up and nail varnish. I walk in feeling unconfident in my best level of dressed-up-ness: no make-up, flat shoes, my only skirt. I look like I’ve wandered in by mistake. Outbreak of wobbly legs and fluttering heart on discovering the meeter and greeter/usher for the event is a male amalgam of Chris Boardman, Ned Boulting and Guy Martin. He reaches out and shakes my hand, which is typically (and entirely true to reality) unmanicured, rough, and with oil from fixing bikes ground into the cracks. Then, in a 100% Guy Martin voice, he looks at my hands as says appreciatively ‘Ooh, them’s proper hands, not like these other women here’, and gives a disparaging glance to the rest of the room in their finery. All self consciousness and lack of confidence is gone in an instant and my heart is warmed and soaring by this uber male hero character selecting me, the ugly duckling, as being noteworthy out of the room full of peacocks. Best seats, special treatment and VIP access are promised. The doors to the event start to open. I wake up, never finding out what the event was, but with a lovely warm feeling that my hands are not a source of shame, but of pride. They’re proper.