AS an avid devotee of America's Next Top Model (it's Jay Alexander, Miss J and Tyra all the way, along with 'noted fashion photographer Ni-gel Bark-er (in faux anglais tones), I have taken to strutting about as I go about my business, as if I were on the catwalk, permanently.
I realise this is laughable as
a) i'm invariably NOT wearing millions of pounds worth of vertiginous heels
b) I'm too short to be a mod-elle and also a bit on the chubster side for it
c) in this crazy city, there's not really enough space to scurry, let alone strut.
However, I have been in a downloading frenzy and hitting the pavements like an overly gravitied white Beyonce none the less.
Minding my own business in a long black jumper from Dottie P and black skinny jeans from the same and black spanish boots and my Kings of Leon skull hoodie, I was doing my Lady Gaga Pokerface pavement stomp.
When some chavvy dude with a cubic zirconion the size of CHINA, tapped me repeatedly on the shoulder and motioned for me to remove my earphones.
Charitable London local that I am, I assumed that he was lost and wanted directions.
Not so folks. It appears that my booty had caught his eye and he was stopping to praise it.
IKKY. and YUK.
And then as I bemusedly moved along with my business, darned if he didn't devote a couple of minutes to following, making vague appreciation noises and saying 'ooo-eee, that's how we like ass'.
It ws nearly enough to put me off me coffee and no mistaking it.
Was I abroad when it became legal to approach someone you've never met before when they're trying to get into Boots for some super large tampax and major pain killers, and just graphically and noisily appreciate their bum?
I realised that maybe I should be going 'oh yipee, my booty-licious body is heating up the street' but all i could think was NO. I was strutting for me, not you.