To the untrained eye, my absence from the world's catwalks and catalogues has to do with the fact I am 5'2" (in heels) and weigh as much as two supermodels. But no.
This morning's episode revealed to me the real reason Gucci and Chanel don't call. I don't get dressed fast enough.
The parcel delivery man visited me this morning, while I was swanning around the house in my new Peter Alexander PJs. [Editor's Note: They are fabulous pyjamas, but probably not suitable for the eyes of too unfamiliar a man].
So as Barkley goes crazy alerting me to the guy's arrival, I am literally scrambling for a top to cover myself. And upon finding a top, do you think I could put it on under pressure?! ARGH so frustrating.
And by the time I wrestled myself into the top, I didn't have time to confirm it was on the right side out, or see what my hair and make-up were doing. I can't begin to imagine what the delivery man thought.
So there it is - I may not be modelling for Missoni or parading for Prada, but I don't suppose I mind all that much. I reckon my catwalk companions would relish my slow, holiday-mode routine and they might actually enjoy not doing anything quickly.
If they ever want to swap places once in a while, I guess a strut down a catwalk could be good exercise for me. As long as my costume changes could be just a little longer. Quality can't be rushed, you understand.
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