Speaking Up

It’s one thing writing about yourself in a weekly column, but quite another talking about yourself, as I discovered when holding my first, and probably last, public appearance.
“You’ll be fine,” gushed my friend Kay Mary, who moves and shakes this town so much she could work for Jell-O. “Just read a couple of columns. Your British accent is so funny. They’ll love you.”
I spent two months preparing a 15 minute presentation that when it was done looked as if I’d put it together in the car on the journey there. I produced a short Powerpoint presentation with real pictures of Grumpy with the Disney character’s head transposed, popped my ‘kill-her’ heels from an earlier column in my bag and set off.
The dress I had bought specially for the occasion seemed to change the minute I put it on. In the store I looked a vision of cuteness in lime green. Walking into the restaurant where I was to speak, I suddenly turned into a giant under ripe water melon. My mouth was so dry I could have drunk the entire contents of Lake Michigan, but realised if I did so, I’d have to give my talk from the bathroom.
I was speaking to Naperville Rotary Club, who hold weekly lunches at the Key Wester restaurant. Kay Mary convinced me there wouldn’t be too many people there at this time of year. If 120 isn’t too many, I dread to think how many they normally attract.
When meeting new people, the three topics to avoid are sex, politics and religion. Somehow I managed to include all three without even thinking about it.
“My name is Decent, because I married the boyfriend with the silliest surname,” I began, desperately juggling my notes, a microphone and the four inch kill-her heels. “Actually that’s not true. I once went out with someone whose surname was SECKs, but my mother ended it because she didn’t believe in sex before marriage.”
This was met with a solitary polite giggle from a woman at the back. I continued on, my voice shaking so much I might as well have been riding a bicycle on gravel. I hoped no one could hear my stomach rumbling. I always thought it would be great to be an after dinner speaker. A free meal, followed by the chance to talk endlessly about yourself. But in retrospect, it would be much better to have it the other way round. I was far too nervous to eat, not in the least because I was terrified I would drop something on myself and have to talk from behind a large stain.
Eventually I drew to a close and the audience applauded politely, no doubt as relieved it was all over as I was. The problem with a name like Hilary (even with one L), is you have a lot to live up to. Where were all those banners with my name on? Surely there must have been a few left over from the Democratic convention they could have borrowed.
When it was over, a few kind people came up to thank me.
“There was one question I was too shy to ask,” said one. “I wish you could have spoken in American, so I could understand what you were saying.”

I would like to let readers know that I am now currently available as a before dinner speaker.