In work earlier this week, I was busy feeling that I was the third class citizen. The one there on sufferance. I'd seen more women's names on the call sheets and realised that competition's hotting up for the role I do and as I often feel I'm only there as a token female, of course they'd pick better ones to tick that diversity box.
In my first couple of pieces I got called back a few times to tweak, rejig, whatever the term. Yeah, I was thinking, not good enough. Boo hoo.
I was also a tiny bit aggrieved that I had three of the more demanding pieces while one colleague had two and the other only one. And one of my demanding pieces was like a Kardashian on speed with an empty shopping trolley - I mean, demanding to the power of eight.
Anyway, I went in and did that thing and actually thought it was pretty good. But I got called back and was grimly settling in for the revoice when the producer, a Number Two, if you like, said that the Number One (who'd called for this alteration) had been 'waxing lyrical' about my script. What, I said, he liked it? Yes, said No.2, he said that the Crone is very good.
I didn't quite cry, but almost.
For ten years I've thought the No.1 thought I was an imperfect number so far down the ordinal series that we seldom get there except in Quantum Theory. But no. He sees me in just double... or even single... digits.
Twenty three years I've been doing this job and maybe I'm not entirely crap after all.
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