I desperately want to be a 6 foot+, lean, mean, chiselled machine. I want to stop traffic.
Just like these glamorous boys earning their pretty penny for walking in a straight line. It just seems like heaven to me. To say nothing of the clothes.
Now would you call that a smock or a kaftan??? Leather with poo-catchers, a safari suit with mini-shorts, oversized manbags and overalls. It is all pure fantasy and I love Love LOVE it all.
There is one model who seriously looks like he's lost when he gets to the end of the runway - go figure. And another on a lean.
But back to me... remember, its always all about me.
The harsh reality is that I am 5 foot 8 in heels with a head more like Bert Newton than chiselled, atop a body that could double for Ghostbuster's marshmallow man. It seems I've got quite a bit of work to do before my Gaultier runway debut.
I would just love to be able to swan down Crown St wearing my kaftan/smock with my new Prada loafers in a look that would be ridiculous on the common-man but fabulous on my supermodel body.
I want to have to turn sideways to be able to fit through a door because of my shoulders not my stomach.
I want to tower over everyone at a crowded bar to just nod at the frantic staff for my next martini.
I want to be able to cruise through life trading purely on my looks and not having to worry about developing a personality or brain. It would just make life so much easier. Its exhausting trying to be funny and smart.
And can you imagine the travel!
Oh well. I know my place in the world and that's at the short peoples table, which is just one up from the kiddies table. I will make bad jokes and learn stuff. Its done me ok so far I guess.
It just means I have to give up my dream of Paris and Milan and settle for Redfern and St Leonards.
I can always watch online.