You know that alarming realisation that hits when, chatting happily to someone at a schmoozy boozy event, you see through your glassy, Champagne eyeholes that standing before you is the person you aspire to be, and that you've only gone and done a collage a few months earlier on just such a theme? No, silly, not Peter Tatchell, tireless fighter for rights, or your mum (coo), but only the ruddy beauty director of Elle. Like - just a dazed walk from Harvey Nichols, through Leeds, scuzzy 40 minute bus ride, and walk across the Stray during which you hear succinctly from a bench-ful of boys 'let's do her', 'urgh, you're sick' - ago, that's who you were talking to. And you didn't ask for a job. Or, more proudly considering your empty stomached fizz-head and unrequited regard for her publication, a lock of her hair. Funny, nugh?