As a young girl you grow up being told by OWM that you can go to university, leave and get yourself a good career - possibly as a pop star. By your mid-twenties you'll be earning a six figure salary, forging a path in a previously male-dominated world. You'll own your own flat, a Mulberry handbag and a Marc Jacobns frock.
By thirty you'll decide you want six babies but because you can't find the time you'll go down to the IVF clinic and demand a multiple birth.
You'll be visited regularly by the pixies and fairies who will drop little Vuitton banglets into your champagne glass when you're not looking, you'll have an occasional but deeply satisfying sexual liaison with Santa Claus and your lady bits will emit the fragrance of rose petals while film stars throw themselves at your feet.
Earth calling OWM? Earth calling OWM? It's getting chilly down here.
Who are you trying to kid? You phoned up nine of your richest friends and told them it would be an absolute hoot to do a photoshoot with the gorgeous Jamie Hunter and tell all the hilarious gullible plebs that they too can have a life like yours.
"This dreamed-of life reads like the delusions of a mad woman, of course."
Too damned right it does. You are a mad woman. You're several rings outside Saturn. You're a screwed-up, envy-ridden harridan who thinks IVfuckingF is a fashion statement. You shouldn't be let near a small domestic pet, let alone a magazine. Your trust-funded friends are worse.
There are teenagers throwing tomatoes at the windows of our local laundrette that have more of a clue about life than you do.
And quite frankly, they dress better.