We stand in line backstage, poised in a perfect queue for perfect people. The Scissor Sisters' “I don't feel like dancing” is blaring in the background, as one by one we're directed onto the newly painted, clean, white Cat Walk.
I step unto the stage, the slight remnants of nervousness falling off my shoulders as I pose, the first pose, a fierce one.
I then expertly position one foot in front of the other and swan down the forever-stretching Catwalk, head held high, looking at no one, taking in everyone.
People look, they stare at the gorgeous model, the woman, dressed expensively, perfectly; each strand of hair trained in place, make-up finessed by only the best artists in the land.
The audience look not so much at the woman, the soft girl in the inside who has her cup of tea, a bit of milk, one sugar, tea bag left inside please.
They stare not at the girl, the mother scarred with stretch marks from childbearing, the wife who would walk, not glide home and put on her apron, cook the pasta.
They admire the immaculate woman with the perfect body dressed in clothes they nor she could ever wear in a normal world; in her kids playground during the school run.
I glide, I pose, I'm fierce, taller than everyone. The cameras flash, I look ahead. I've long ago learned how to look beyond them so I don't blink.
I turn my back and sail back, as another model calmly steps out of the chaos back stage.
Even before I step behind the curtain my dresser is pulling my clothes off me. She unties my shiny perfect shoes and I step out of them. I don't quite know how she does it but I'm dressed again and in the queue, waiting my turn to be ordered out unto the long white stage once more.
Here I go, I'm fierce, I pose…
Taller, much taller than anyone.
