Being called into my supervisor’s office, I wondered what he wanted to talk about. I always worked hard, so hoped there wasn’t a problem.
It was 2009, I was 39 and a cleaner for Manchester Council. ‘We want to offer you a promotion,’ my supervisor said, explaining the role was more office-based, looking after bookings, enquiries and more. I was touched that they’d thought of me, but I was terrified, too, especially when he talked about fielding emails.
‘I’ll take it,’ I said. I should have been on cloud nine but, heading home to my husband James, and younger kids, Darcy, then six and Declan, 16, I felt sick to my stomach. What had I agreed to? Would I be able to do the job? Would the secret I’d been…
