My ignite talk. Unfortunately it wasn't destroyed by some accident of the cameraman. It exists. Do I have to watch it?

My fingers sprawl over my eyes as I press play. Stolen glances of Ellen on film make me wish I had listened more to that journalist I mentioned in "Being a girl is too damn hard". I peek out at intervals, as I do when perched at the top of a tower with a view that spikes my vertigo, trying to control the sensation that I am tumbling on the inside.

I am also wailing, to try and smother that Americanised accent. As the words spoken resonate with my memory of events, landing heavily to confirm each stumble and mistake, I pull my shoulders up to my neck as though I have tasted a sour apple drop and its liquid is catching in the crevice between tongue and gum, slicing through me, making me cringe uncontrollably.

But then it comes to an end, the final photo is shown, the audience laughs, and people remember the end, not the beginning, right? It's over. Phew.

5 minutes of Ellen ramble coming up: cover your eyes, start wailing, and enjoy.