Until a couple of years ago, the thing that frightened me more than anything else — even more than my childhood terror of bats making a nest in my hair — was standing up before a group of benign people and opening my mouth.
My fear of public speaking was as irrational as it was extreme. So much so that I spent the first two decades of my working life going to great lengths to ensure I never had to do it. Then, around my 40th birthday, I decided this was not only career limiting but also pathetic, and so started to force myself to accept invitations.
The night before my first big speech I was so nervous I failed to sleep at all, and in the morning put on bright pink shoes in the fond hope that the jauntiness of my feet would trick the audience into thinking their owner felt the same way. Fifteen years on I have dispensed with the pink shoes and speak with almost no fear. My body obligingly generates just about enough adrenalin so that I focus on what I am meant to be doing, but that’s about it.