Edgars Swimwear Catalogue Mid 1998

Somewhere in the middle of 1998, I booked my first professional photo shoot. There hadn't even been a casting, the department store client (Edgars) had chosen from our Z-cards and on the strength of agency recommendations. So it happened that I was one of a bunch of models, a photographer, stylist and a hair and make-up artist who set off for the coastal town of Langebaan on a cold, rainy day in the middle of winter.

We were off to shoot the Edgars summer catalogue, swimwear edition. I remember being shy and quiet on the trip out there, even though I was very pleased to meet an acquaintance, Chia, there too. I was excited to be working on something that was going to be seen by thousands of people, physical proof that I was finally getting closer to being a real working model. I was also quite scared. What if they weren't happy with my posing? What if the bikini's didn't fit? What if they thought I was too skinny or that my breasts were too small? I tried to blink away my fears and keep smiling, trying to appear confident and nonchalant.

We were shooting on a houseboat in Langebaan, and although it was not as wet as it had been in Cape Town when we left, the day was still cool and cloudy. We all cramped into the small space, trying to stay out of the way while it was someone else's turn in the make-up chair. Eventually we were all ready and the shoot got under way.

My first shot was me on my own, and the photographer (the brilliant Gerda Genis) told me to just relax against the rails, looking comfortable and dreamy. This seemed impossible to me, as I was shivering with goosebumps from the cold, the rails were too far apart to lie against and covered in splinters. I could feel the team's frustration rise as we struggled to get the shot, wind blowing hair all over my face and my pose just not relaxed and dreamy-looking enough. Eventually Gerda called it quits, moving on to the next shot. Urgh, I could only hope the next shot would be easier.

The rest of my shots were all in groups and as Gerda wanted us to be really natural and unposed, it was much easier to just hang out, chat and smile. The clothes all fit and I felt much better, confidence growing as the day wore on.

Just when I thought I had it all under control, Gerda told us to jump in. We stared at her in disbelief. At the best of times, in the middle of the long hot summer, the temperature of Langebaan's Atlantic water doesn't get anywhere near a pleasant swimming degree. Now it was cool, mostly overcast, the middle of winter and the water was freezing. While we remained shocked into silence, the rest of the behind-the-scenes team started yelling "Go on, jump, for goodness sakes, just do it already! You won't melt!" And so we jumped, into the icy cold, coming up gasping for breath, teeth chattering.

None of the jumping or swimming shots made it into the catalogue - we were probably looking far too blue and outraged! But as the sun was setting, peeking out from behind the clouds for a minute or two every now and then, Gerda captured some sun-soaked images.

I can hardly explain to you just how cold we were in the picture above, but with a bit of photographic magic and some seriously strained smiling skills, you'd never guess!

A few days after the shoot, my agency called me to say they'd missed one crucial shot and that I'd been booked to re-do it. I made my way into the city to meet the team at Gerda's studio. They'd been shooting all morning and were just ordering lunch as I got there, so they offered some to me. I was given a menu from a place I'd never heard of, Kauai. I ordered the first sandwich on the menu, the Healer. This is significant because twelve years later it's still my favourite take-out in the whole wide world. Healthy and tasty and filling and scrumptious, yum. After lunch, hair and make-up we drove out to the nearest beach and spent about twenty minutes taking this picture:

Not really mind-blowing or obviously important, and who could tell that I'm even on a beach? It's a strange industry for sure, I got paid half as much for this one easy shot as for the whole trip to Langebaan and the icy experience that proved to be!

*Fashion She Wrote... 1998*

In April 1998 I was chosen to model for the Nederburg Fashion Collection. At the same time, Gustav Andor approached me as he was looking for a fashion correspondent for his new Performance Arts magazine, Stage. I was thrilled to be asked to write, but in typical student-fashion, always left the work till the night before my deadline. I vividly recall sitting in the student computer locale, cold and grey and uninspiring as any building could possibly be, rattling off my stories late into the midnight hours. Typing it all out now, I was itching to edit and improve my youthful writing and my editor's misinterpretations, but I resisted for the most part and after all I'm so grateful to have these few glimpses into my world back then!

* The Nederburg Auction is one of the most prestigious events on South Africa's social calender. Every year the country's finest wine makers are honoured at this gala celebration of good wine and fashion. The Auction is not only famous for the copious amounts of good wine being auctioned, but also for the fashion event which has become synonymous with the Nederburg Auction. The Nederburg Fashion Collection was produced and choreographed by Mary Reynolds of Tramps the Show Company.

The 1998 show was held on Saturday 4 April at the Nederburg Wine farm. When we arrived at 8am for hair and makeup, we found a confusion of vehicles and people moving around with great efficiency and some urgency. A great marquee tent served as the venue for the fashion show.
Fortunately it was a sunny Autumn day and the grass floor would not cause too much trouble, except for those celebrities who were already following the latest shoe fad: the return of the stiletto heel! It's never been considered glamorous or elegant to get stuck with or fall over even a very sexy stiletto. But that was not our problem, we had a beautiful, sparkling white catwalk to embarrass ourselves on.

On arrival we were hurried backstage so that the guests wouldn't see what models really look like at eight in the morning. Not even a glass of Champagne was sneaked our way, but considering the height of the catwalk, it's probably better that way!
At ten o'clock most of the models were ready (isn't ready a very relative concept?) and the floor was covered in hair. Our quite eccentric and very impulsive hair dresser, Kevin, had decided that some of us would look so much better with a bit less furry growth on top.
"This long hair (which I have been growing for two years!) is doing nothing for you, darling!" In less than twenty snips, I was sporting a bob. "See that, is that the same girl?!" Too shocked to shout and too intimidated to cry, I just managed to murmur 'thanks, I've been meaning to do that' and rush towards the nearest mirror. But all twenty mirrors were occupied by the other models inspecting their new haircuts or doing last minute makeup checks. I swallowed my tears (my mascara isn't waterproof) and waited for a turn at the mirrors.

The models were from all over the world. Chia from Japan, Camilla from Eastern Europe, Sofia from France, Mia from Namibia, some from New Zealand, the UK - just about every continent. (There must've been an American somewhere, I'm sure.) Chia and Camilla met at the 1997 Nederburg Show and enjoyed it so much, they agreed to meet again at the casting for this year's show. They said the main thing that made it so enjoyable was the beauty of the farm and its surroundings. I felt more than a little proud.

When I finally found a spot from where I could see myself, some nervous people rushed in and faffed around us, fixing this and that and making sure that the hat in scene 10 sits skew and covers the left eye. These were the designers, coming in for a final inspection of their delectable creations. Receiving an invitation to display your particular brand of style on the day, is a feat comparable to finding the Holy Grail. Only the best couturiers in the South African industry get the opportunity to showcase their designs.

This year the nineteen selected participants ranged from the familiar names of well-established designers such as Dicky Longhurst, Spero Villioti and La Boutique Yvelle to innovative newcomers Gideon and Francois Vedemme. This combination of the experienced and the young and daring worked especially well to result in a show of splendid variety. Every model walked in seven scenes and then in the finale.

Between every scene there are two others. This means that you have roughly five minutes to change from one intricate outfit with matching stockings, jewellery, shoes and other accessories to another. But that's not even the real challenge. You must accomplish this task without messing up your makeup, shouting at your dresser or tearing the delicate stockings. You should rather die before going on stage with the wrong accessories, and (as one poor model found out too late) make sure you know which side goes on front, or you might be exposing a bit more than even the flamboyant designer intended.

And then there is rule number one: no matter how much you run and shout and generally behave un-ladylike back stage, the moment you set foot on the ramp, you will be the very picture of composure, confidence and of course arrogance.

Surprisingly, I actually met most of these expectations, but the fact that I might have looked confident on the ramp, is only due to the brilliance of the outfits. Every item demanded such a definite attitude from the wearer that it could not be ignored. Stepping into a dress was like stepping into character for a play. You can't help but feel ultra cool in Speedo, or refined in a two-piece suit with boots, hat and gloves by La Boutique Yvelle.
I was a bit disappointed that I couldn't wear some of the really spunky designers' dresses (especially Hip Hop and Francois Vedemme), but one scene really made up for that: Gideon designed the most exquisitely feminine 'gangster' wear imaginable in fake snakeskin. Slim pants and tailored jackets along with the French song from the Great Expectations soundtrack, made this my favourite scene. For that minute or two, I was a female Al Capone.

In retrospect, the whole thing was over rather soon. Only three days had passed from first fitting to the end of the show. And the show itself was hardly more than an hour long.
Everything feels a bit dream-like now, except that my hair is still inexplicably short. But I suppose that's a small price to pay for such a day of intense excitement and glamour. Will I try and go to the casting next year? I'll have to wait and see what state my hair is in!

* As published in Stage Magazine, July / August 1998 issue.

Test Shoot: Fanie Nel

The third test I did was one of my favourites ever. I was introduced to Fanie Nel through the agency, he was test shooting a lot of their new girls. Fanie did everything himself: the make-up, the styling and the photography. Not bad for an Afrikaans boytjie from Bloemfontein?

When Fanie was done with my make-up, I stood by the mirror in awe. He knew just where to shade, where to highlight and accentuate. He'd painted me some cheekbones, perfected my eyebrows and made my lips seem fuller. Genius. Then he pulled out a suitcase filled with fabric, tops, dresses, scarves and jewellery from which he styled perfect outfits within minutes. We started off with a groomed and elegant, slightly more mature look.

As soon as Fanie had the camera in his hands, I discovered his next super talent, directing a model. He made me clench my jaw, put my tongue up against the roof of my mouth and stick my head out towards him. It felt quite strange while I was doing it, but the pictures blew my mind. At twenty my face was very soft and child-like, leaning towards round, but his instructions gave me shape and angles.

Fanie also taught me how to get expression in my eyes; he told me to think of something, anything at all. The tendency is to go blank when someone's pointing a camera at you and that shows in pictures. When you just let your thoughts go, emotions rise involuntarily and reflect in your eyes.

For the second look, we kept it sweet and simple. My hair was straightened with a straightening iron for the first time in my life!

When these pictures were in my book, clients were always saying I looked like Katie Holmes. Dawson's Creek was big at the time!

While driving from one location to the next, we stopped next to the road where some reeds were growing. A black shirt, a cowboy hat with a hole in it and we were done.


For our final shots, Fanie said we should do something a bit more directional/fashion/fun.
Great fashion editorials are pure creative fantasy, where editors and stylists work together to create an image that needs no real life relevance, it's the art of the fashion industry; beauty for beauty's sake. So Fanie pulled out of his magic trunk a little pink frock, added some messy woodland nymph hair and a sprinkling of glittery eyeshadow. To complete his fairy fantasy, we drove out to a small section of forest nearby and I went boldly into the undergrowth.

I was working very hard at remembering all the instructions Fanie had given me during the day, and it shows in these photographs. The poses are good (for 1997), my face is defined and there's plenty of expression.

This photograph was on the front of my Z-card in one country or another for at least six years!

My only critique would be that my face is so much lighter than my body, an issue that's easily fixed in post-production these days. Which reminds me, these pictures were all shot on film and no retouching was done. Disturbingly, that is almost unheard of these days.

Test Shoot: Guy Bubb & Louise Fuller

My second test shoot was a whole lot easier than the first. Debbie had set me up with a young photographer, Guy Bubb and a make-up artist represented by Storm, Louise Fuller. Guy and Louise were both chilled, easy-going personalities who knew just how to put me at ease and so they helped me get my first good shots!

We shot at Guy's flat, a sun-drenched apartment in a funky old seventies block on Green Point's Main Road. It was spacious, comfortable and the natural light was beautiful.
Once again, we were working without a stylist (what did Storm have against stylists at the time?), but since Debbie had asked for some pictures showing my body, my limited selection of bikini's was enough for us to work with. I've mentioned before how I was new to bikini-wearing, so even though Guy was very professional and respectful, it was still a huge challenge for me to pose around in front of a man, wearing nothing but my swimwear.

Louise had given me an amazing hairdo, using sections alternately styled with crimping and curling irons, turning my fine head of hair into a luscious bushy mess! This, together with some super natural but shimmery make-up, was glamorous enough to make me feel a little bit like someone else. Maybe even a real model?


I remember Guy showing me how to lean into the wall, making it look oddly natural for a person to be wilting into a wall, but when i tried to copy the pose, it didn't have quite the same effect.



We changed outfits and they posed me on Guy's colourful couch. He told me to just be chilling, reading magazines. So that's exactly what I did. Except, it looks all fake and uncomfortable? Guess I still had a lot to learn!


For the last shot Guy wanted me to do something spontaneous, get a bit of energy and laughter going. He told me to throw a magazine at him. I laughed and refused, what if I broke his camera? The agency loved this shot, I hated it. Debbie asked: "Why do you hate it? That's what you look like?" I was insulted. I thought my top lip looked too thin, my nose too long and my ear protruded too much. Sigh... the follies of youth. I realised about eight years ago that it was actually a great picture, and it stayed in my book for a very long time!

Firing the First Shot

Somewhere in between joining Storm Model Agency and walking the ramp with the Supermodels, I needed to get started on my model portfolio. A model's portfolio (commonly referred to as her book) is her resume, her ad campaign, the proof in the pudding - vouching that she is a professional and showing off her photographic potential.

Unless you're lucky enough to have Patrick Demarchelier banging on your door from the second you're discovered, you need to build your book by testing. Test photography is a collaboration between agency, photographer, styling artists and model. Sometimes new photographers offer to test shoot models for free, as a way of building their own portfolios. Otherwise the agency or the model might pay the rest of the team to shoot specific pictures that the model needs. If a rookie model finds a good agency that believes in her, the agency will pay for test shoots upfront, hoping to recoup their investment when she starts earning money. I was lucky enough that Storm offered to do this for me, otherwise that might have been the end of everything!

My very first test was a bit of a nightmare. For some unknown reason, a photographer and make-up artist was booked, but no stylist. A couple of days before the scheduled date, the photographer phoned me and told me to bring my own clothing. When I panicked and started explaining that I'm a poor drama student with a taste for the unusual, he unsympathetically said I could surely borrow some decent duds from friends or maybe I knew someone who owned a boutique? Dude, I wasn't some hoity-toity Camps Bay socialite, trying her hand at a spot of modeling when I wasn't swanning around in my boutique-owner friends' designer gear...
Poor. Drama Student. Out in the sticks!
But the intimidated young me just said okay, I'll make a plan, before putting down the phone and freaking out.

As fate would have it, one of my house mates heard the ruckus and came out to check on me. Frans is a bear of a man, an engineering student at the time, who loved playing his didgeridoo at all hours of the day and night. He went on to play underwater hockey for the Netherlands. Interesting man. Anyway, so Frans calmed me down and pointed out that his wealthy, fabulous artist mother did know some boutique owners and within an hour I had an appointment at a swish store in the Waterfront. The kind of store I'd never even looked at, never mind went into and shopped at!

Frans' mother must have had serious clout at the boutique, as I was treated with great kindness on my scouting trip. The sales lady helped me find three outfits according to the photographer's list: a suit, a cocktail dress and a smart-casual outfit. The grown-up elegance of the store was so far removed from my personal taste and lifestyle, I couldn't picture myself wearing any of it and had no opinion either way, so I happily left the store with my loot beautifully wrapped and hung in suit bags.

When I arrived at the shoot location (a gorgeous house in Camps Bay, ironically) I had no idea what to do or what to expect. The make-up artist was courteous but not friendly, unceremoniously shoving me into a chair and starting to powder and paint my face. She sighed at the state of my home-dyed hair and made as little as possible small talk. Once she was done with me, she called the photographer over and he too seemed a bit gruff and impatient. They stared in misery at my little collection of clothing and then seemed to agree to just shoot it and be done with me.

You see, the success of any photo shoot is dependent on so many different factors all coming together beautifully and if one area is underwhelming, it affects everything else. While the clothing I'd brought was nice enough, a professional stylist would've added just the right shoes, earrings, belts and other accessories to take it from a fairly boring periwinkle blue suit to something hot and happening. Sans stylist, this was going to be hard.

We spent about three hours taking photographs. I was so out of my depth. I would stand in the position indicated by the photographer and not know what on earth to do. My eager devouring of fashion magazines clearly didn't mean I suddenly knew how to pose and work the outfit. We shot the blue suit standing against a wall, then for the cocktail dress I was lying down on a sun lounger while the photographer shot straight down at me from the balcony above. It was slow going and highly frustrating, no matter which way I turned or how I tuned my smile up or down, the photographer seemed unhappy.
Eventually we moved on to the last outfit, a little printed T-shirt and black trousers. They posed me on a bed, trying to get me to look all relaxed and natural. An impossibility when I felt that they were unimpressed by me and that things just weren't working out. Somehow I ended up upside-down and finally the photographer was sounding a bit more enthusiastic. "Good, great, little smile... Okay maybe a little less..." And we were finished.

In retrospect, it wasn't terrible for a first shoot. Sure, having a stylist would've helped a great deal, especially if we'd chosen clothing a little closer to my own style. And a slightly friendlier team, used to working with first-time models, could have made me feel more confident and adventurous in my posing. But things don't always come together perfectly and there was also a lesson in that. We used about five pictures from the test for my first portfolio, as a mediocre set of pictures was better than no pictures at all. Eventually the suit and the cocktail dress shots were removed from my book and got lost, but I still have one picture left to remind me of the start of it all.

Madiba and me

When Storm called me a couple of days later to say that I was booked for the Versace show, I was understandably confused. After the curt dismissal at the casting, how could I possibly have been chosen?
Debbie soon explained that while I wouldn’t be walking the ramp with Kate, Naomi and Amber in the latest Versace couture, myself and two other Storm models had been selected to model in an auction after the show.

The motivation behind the “Versace For Africa” event was a charity drive headed by Naomi Campbell. She had spent some time with President Mandela and had even been named as his honorary grand daughter! He had truly moved her to become actively involved with his personal charity, the Nelson Mandela Children’s Fund. Naomi had approached her long-term friend Donatella and together they brought the international epitome of glamour to Africa. They’d end the stellar fashion show with an auction, the proceeds of which were to go to the NMCF. The House of Versace also donated to the auction, ten outfits and a copy of Gianni Versace's book, Vanitas, signed by the author.

Amber Valletta, Christy Turlington and Naomi Campbell arrive at Genadendal

I was thrilled to be involved in this worthy, glamorous event in any way and eagerly awaited the weekend. My dad dropped me off outside then-President Mandela’s house where I was quickly cleared by security. I was escorted to a marquee tent that was all abuzz with models, make-up artists, hair stylists and dressers. Once they figured out who I was and what I was there for, I was plopped down into a seat at a row of makeshift vanity tables. I was excited to see Louwina there. She smiled and winked at me conspiratorially as if to say, “Look! We got in anyway, can you believe it?” While someone started gluing extensions onto my own hair roots, another soul dressed head to toe in black performed an artistic miracle on my face, turning the girl-next-door into someone who might almost be mistaken for a model!

When I wasn’t staring disbelievingly at the transformation in the mirror, I tried my best to pretend that I didn’t notice MISS KATE MOSS in the seat next to me, paging through a trashy magazine and carelessly tossing her cigarette butt onto the temporary carpet. I held my pose when MISS NAOMI CAMPBELL jokingly (or not so jokingly?) and loudly voiced her opinion that they “always gave Amber and Christy the highest heels and the best dresses, it’s not fair”! I remember being charmed by their British accents, and that Naomi’s presence truly was larger than life. Wherever she was in the room, you knew it and you knew what was on her mind. But she was also quite sweet and funny and astoundingly beautiful. Kate was much more reserved and almost tomboyish.

I didn’t manage to catch a glimpse of Amber or Christy, though they must’ve been right there. I was desperately trying to spot any local models, curious as to who might’ve made the cut at the daunting casting. Eventually I noticed a young blonde, totally memorable by her luscious lips.
Lisa-Marie Schneider was about sixteen and just breaking into the local modeling scene. Male magazines were doing features on her and there was talk of a contract with a huge New York agency. I smiled at her as she nervously tottered up and down on sky-high stilettos; practicing so she wouldn’t mess up out on the ramp.

Lisa-Marie Schneider

Soon all the show models were called up to their dressing rails for first outfits and us auction models were herded into a kitchenette to anticipate our own turn on the catwalk. Louwina introduced me to a flaming redhead with the finest, most delicate features. Michelle du Toit and I were both small-town girls new to this game, both more interested in art and drama than glitz and glamour. We became fast friends that night at Genadendal and now eleven years later, I still consider her a dear, dear friend.

Michelle du Toit

When the Versace Spring/Summer ’98 unveiling was over, the celebrity models took their seats in the audience and it was show time for us. We took turns to slip in and out of the outfits up for auction, parading them with what we hoped was flair and expertise. When the next item was a car we posed next to it; paintings, books and plates were held up for examination and so we made it up as we went along.

The supermodels were quite vocal during the bidding, cheering on the highly cautious South African glitterati. Yes it was for Madiba, and yes, it was by Versace, but such flashy foreign labels were never traditionally held in high esteem at the tip of Africa. But things plodded along, certainly aided by the supers and their dollars and pounds.

My final item was a Madiba shirt, created by Gianni Versace himself in honour of the great peacekeeping leader. My dresser and I decided to throw it on over the last sequin mini I’d been wearing and off I went. I was still careful on the stilettos and pretty much faking the calm confidence required. I stood on stage and took a minute to actually see into the audience. Here I was, and there in the stands, looking up at me (or at least at my shirt) was Naomi, Kate and Christy, laughing and cheering and shouting higher and higher bids. It was so surreal.

The shirt eventually sold for R30,000 to an unknown bidder and luckily for me, the moment was caught on film.

While I was definitely in awe of the big persona's surrounding me at this moment, I think I'd also just expected this level of celebrity and excitement from the modeling industry. When looking at it from the outside, it seems that this is the norm. In the next decade, I'd come to realise what a uniquely memorable event this was. Truly special for the fact that it happened so soon after the tragic death of Gianni Versace, that it established Cape Town as a tiny but important part of the international fashion scene and in that it brought together the high profile impact of the supermodels at the height of their power and the venerable cause of the Nelson Mandela Children's Fund. The supermodels even made a little film about the event, Fashion Kingdom. I wonder if I'm in it?

Versace

My very first casting through Storm was a big one, and I didn’t even know it. I was instructed to go to the Table Bay Hotel in the V&A Waterfront for a show casting, wearing a short skirt and heels. I recall it was a Friday afternoon and I rushed out after class to change and chase into the city. Luckily by this time my brother had gone overseas, leaving his little blue Ford Laser in my slightly inexperienced hands!

I made it to the hotel in one piece, parked somewhere I wasn’t supposed to and hurried into the foyer. I was greeted by the sight of around eighty long-limbed girls, all wearing the short skirt-high heels-uniform, lined up outside a conference room, waiting to be seen. With a disappointed sigh I joined the back of the queue, this was going to take forever! An hour later only twenty girls had been in, come out and left and the crowd was getting restless.

I’d finally built up the courage to strike up a conversation with a slightly older girl whose face I recognized from magazines and the Storm model board, Louwina. She’d been modeling professionally since she was sixteen and had seen it all. She was the one who told me that this casting was for a VERSACE show to be held at NELSON MANDELA’S home and that all the SUPERMODELS would be there too! I listened attentively as she explained to a bunch of us newbie’s what a rare and amazing occurrence this was. Big international fashion houses never did shows in South Africa, and Naomi, Kate, Christy and Amber certainly didn’t put in regular appearances on our humble catwalks. I didn’t know whether to believe the outrageous things Louwina was telling us, but at least listening to her gush about it made the time go by.

A little flame of hope was also sparking to life inside my head. Imagine being on the catwalk with the likes of my favourite model at the time, Amber Valetta? I started building castles in the sky about being properly discovered, hand picked by Donatella Versace to star in the next Versace perfume campaign and the jet setting lifestyle my pal Amber and I would enjoy...

Look, I'm generally a sensible girl but when you feel like you get so close to these ephemeral, inspirational mirages of glamour and status, it's hard not to lose one's head just a little.

My beautiful reverie was shattered when someone of obvious authority appeared from behind the closed doors of the conference room. She was tall and blonde, dressed head to toe in black and looked severely harassed. At the sight of the slim hordes snaking through the foyer, she seemed even more upset. She went back into the room and came out with a shorter, darker version of herself. Together they started at the head of the queue, looking each girl over, then having a short, quiet conference before telling the model whether to stay or go. Instead of letting each model wait around before getting a chance to walk the ramp in front of the panel, only pre-selected ones would go through to the conference room. The rest were free to leave. On the one hand this seemed cruel and dismissive, on the other, it was going to save everyone a lot of time.

The ladies in black made their way down the queue in minutes. They knew exactly which type of model they were looking for and it seemed that there weren’t any of those at this casting! I think I saw two models being sent in to the actual casting, everyone else was summarily rejected. When Louwina got the boot just a couple of girls ahead of me, I knew I had no chance. She was taller, slimmer and infinitely more experienced. So when my turn came to stand defenseless before the judges, I saw their eyes glazing over in a definite negative, gave them my biggest smile and marched out the foyer door before they could utter their meaningless ‘thanks for coming’.

I slammed shut the door of my car, seething with humiliation and frustration, regretting the time and petrol wasted. It doesn’t matter how little you care for this business, how much you understand mentally that it’s nothing personal, it still stings like hell to be discarded so heartlessly. In time I would grow a thicker skin, I would waltz out of worse situations with a grin on my face thinking “Your loss, suckers!” but that first impulse of hurt and injured pride is still uncomfortably familiar after all these years.