You've just passed your driving test at 17. Suddenly you're alone, in a car, on an A road and you're freaking yourself out by by thinking if I just turn this steering wheel I'll plough headlong into that horsebox. And no one would stop me.
That's how this week has felt. Bar acts of god or laptop, I'm completely in control of this, My New Business, and bloody hell it's scary. Today I'll send the first email beyond immediate friends and family - announcing the existence of VanRoe. And I'm gripped by the horsebox-careering-terrors.
Starting a business is often compared to having a baby. I can't agree. The last few weeks have been far more obsessional, more like hardcore railway modelling or competitive bonsai-ing than preparation for birth. It's all about control. William's birth, 7 months ago was all fluffy-duffy letting go, go with the flow, sitaram yoga and bells (not really, it was hardcore. But an out-of-control-and-that's-ok hardcore). The business is mine in a way I would never want Billy to be. I've decided every word, I've photoshopped every image. There's no company to hide behind, no boss to blame, no one'll give me an emergency caesarian if things get too rough. Bloody hell.