Adrenaline is released, opening up my capillaries. My heart rate accelerates rapidly. It thumps violently in my chest. Feels like it’s jumping out of my chest, like an old Bugs Bunny cartoon.

I am unbalanced, paralysed. My body has gone into emergency mode and I’m not in control. My sympathetic nervous system is bypassing the more socially acceptable parts of my brain, and exposing the real, sweaty, me. My palms are moist. More than clammy. My skin feels prickly down my back.

My cheeks are ‘Volcano Red’ on the Dulux colour chart. I can’t see, but I know this is definitely not a posh, subtle colour. This is the colour of fire and fury. It is the temperature of Brünnhilde’s immolation. I’m in Walhalla, smelling the smoke and feeling the burn across my skin.

I stare at the desk. If I was conscious enough to make a decision, and had access to the full range of options, I would choose ‘flight’, not ‘fight, but for now my body chooses ’freeze’. My autopilot thinks that if I hang my head down and don’t make eye contact, I will be invisible. 

Of course I’m not invisible, but this gives me a couple of seconds to breathe. I’m under attack and I just need that place of safety.

It’s not me. It can’t be me.

This uncontrollable physiological reaction to my intense shame, has a practical function. When we know we’ve done something wrong, it’s supposed to help us avoid making the same mistake in the future. 

That’s the theory anyway, but I’m not content with that explanation because this moment, this blistering embarrassment, was caused by you. Right now, you are my only mistake.

Gasps, murmurs across the office. Who is it for? Oooh it’s for him! They point. Wide eyed and eyebrows elevated.

It’s the biggest, most expensive bunch of flowers I have ever seen, and my name is on the card. So this is your way of saying sorry.

You wanker.

Allan MacWilliam

Allan has been coming to the last three series of workshops.

This is the first creative writing he has done.