When I was 20, working at a posh London restaurant, my boss told me my walk wasn’t sexy enough.
Although mortified, I giggled and pranced about the place with an exaggerated Mick Jagger swagger.
A few years later another man, the organiser of an event I was working at, approached me while I was cleaning the bar to say he’d been watching, and he loved the way I “worked that mop.”
