Rosie Huntington-Whiteley says she doesnt ""really breathe when she walks down the runway. Joan Smalls gets ""butterflies every time. Even Glamazon Gisele cant bear to think before she stalks: ""The idea of all eyes on me would make me too uncomfortable, she says. Crikey. And Heidi Klum doesnt actually do catwalks, she confides � because she cant get the clothes over her hips. So what on earth am I � middle-aged, middle-sized, 5ft 4ins and menopausal � doing in a gown that clings to every fear-stoked goose bump, a dress that puddles on the floor, far too long for the four-inch heels in which I am tottering like a sailor on shore leave, preparing to strut my weary Tuesday night stuff down a real live catwalk? Will no one grab a blanket, throw it over my head and stage a mid-life crisis intervention? Apparently not. The speakers are pumping out Dolly Parton, a warm hand in the small of my back is giving me a wee push, and Im off. I bound out from the wings in what I fondly imagine is the the manner of a sleek gazelle. Alright, perhaps Im trotting more like a plumpish New Forest pony, newly trimmed hooves squeezed into palest purple suede. Either way, Im fretting about not falling over � as Naomi Campbell notoriously did walking for Vivienne Westwood in monstrous platforms � as I head down the varnished wooden t-shaped runway under hot, bright lights.
