And I signed anyway. All four pages. Inside about two minutes.
I have told that story about forty times in two years, and I have told it as a story about dignity.
About being the one who did not scrap over a van and four machines. About how I wanted the girls to see it done cleanly.
Four people have told me I was admirable. One of them was my own mother.
It was not dignity. I have had eleven weeks on it and I know exactly what it was.
I wanted Ramsey to think well of me.
That is it.
That is the whole of the reason, and it fits into seven words, and it took me two years and a cardboard box to be able to write them down.
Still. Eleven months after he stood in my kitchen and talked about my waist.
I wanted that man — sitting across a table from me with his own solicitor beside him — to look at me afterwards and think:
