My manager presented the referral results and named me before anyone had to remind him. I was genuinely happy, smiling at my laptop like a fool, then immediately worrying that everybody expected the next campaign to do even better. Can I enjoy one thing in peace? A junior colleague messaged that she wants to learn how I planned it, and that part felt good without the extra noise. I told my sister at home and she cheered much louder than the achievement required, which was exactly what I needed. Still haven't told my mum because she will ask when the promotion is coming, and I don't want today's good feeling turned into the next thing I haven't secured yet.

Got home from the Island with that headache sitting right above my eyes, the one that makes even my sister asking what I want to eat sound too loud. I had spent the last meeting squinting at a shared screen because the numbers were tiny, then kept reading campaign messages in traffic. My shoulders were up so high I only noticed when I took my bag off. I lay down without my phone for a bit and the tightness eased, but I could still feel it when I turned my head. Nothing dramatic, just enough to make washing my hair seem like a major project. Changed into a loose shirt and ate what my sister had already cooked. No decision-making capacity left, abeg.

Mum described a fabric as something a woman could wear when she wanted people to know she had arrived, and I nearly asked permission to steal the line. She says she doesn't understand my marketing work, yet she's been matching cloth to people's ambitions since before I could count change. The difference is that she can see the customer's face when the pitch fails. I spend days arguing over what a number means after the person has gone. I keep thinking about one woman at her shop who wanted to look expensive without looking like she'd tried. Whole campaign brief, delivered between two bolts of fabric. Mum found her something in five minutes, naturally.