So I'm using the loo at Silvestina's house. I'm not that fond of Silvestina, and I'm not that fond of peeing and handwashing whilst simultaneously and soothingly jiggling The Bub, although it has to be said that I have that part of it down to a fine art.
All in all, not my most glamorous moment.
Until I step out of the bathroom and, OMG, nearly drop The Bub. Where. Is. My. Modelling. Contract. I am heaven!! I am 7 foot tall and weigh, like, hardly anything.
The Princess runs upstairs, anxious not to be separated from me for too long (I am wearing her favourite shoes, after all). Standing beside me, her button-bright face looks positively gaunt and I am brought back to earth with a Heffalumpian thud.
I can't get the image out of my head though; every mirror, every shop window I've caught my reflection in since has carried with it the mild sting of disappointment. I'm slightly (and not very kindly) cheered by the fact that, a-ha, so that explains some of Silvestina's tendencies towards inverse dysmorphia. Flattering clothes choices? Maybe not so much.
But oh god. Italy and daily cossie-wearing in just over a week. How much happier would my holiday (indeed, my life) be if I could live in that joke mirror. As long as it wasn't hanging in Silvestina's bedroom, that is. I'll do a lot for vanity, but there are limits, I tell you. Limits.
Wearing Primark skinnies, Zara linen tee and Bloch ballet pumps.