I was at a sports centre in north London a few months back, taking my eldest to a children’s party. It had one of those multi-level soft -play areas, which her two-year-old brother immediately disappeared into. Ordered to bring him back for cake, which I delivered with the usual supply-teacher lack of authority, I had to crawl through two foam bars to get him. But as I squeezed through it occurred to me that I was in fact stuck, and a wave of panic suddenly overtook me. A scenario began to unfold in my head of having to get the staff to free me, perhaps the fire brigade. Meanwhile, all the parents and kids would be laughing, all except my daughter, who would one day be explaining the story to a therapist.
Except were that to happen someone would probably start filming it. They might put it on YouTube and soon it would be on Facebook and Twitter; by the time I was out I’d be trending, and people would be making mash-ups of me with dance music tracks and funny graphics.
By the evening The Guardian would have think-pieces about what my trapped backside said about patriarchy and white privilege.
Read it all there….