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2002-11-07 - 5:59 p.m.

So next week in my hard-nosed journalistic drive for da trooth, I travel to Bristol to interview models. Or at least, a model. I�ve never met a real live one before and despite it being a profession that �specialises in illiterates� (cheers, Mr Amis) I�m quite intrigued. I looked at my subject�s online portfolio and it seems to be lots of shots of her in slightly tacky underwear, though since the �shoot� (that�s a technical term, kids � write it down!) I�m sitting in on is a TV campaign for diabetes, I doubt there�ll be much overpriced lingerie action involved, unless they�re on some kind of weird recruitment drive (�You thought diabetes was just a metabolism disorder? You obviously haven�t seen us LATELY�� � cue montage of thirsty looking waifs in g-strings playing volleyball and shooting up insulin or some such � �Dare to Have Low Blood Sugar�).

My unshaven neck patch is drawing attention. I can see people clock it and the thought �he�s missed a bit� cross their minds. That, or the blind panic in the eyes of the tragically hip Hoxtonites (replace with ludicrously-haired, terminally fashion-magazine lead social amoeba, crippled by gut-wrenching inability to be seen being even vaguely approving of absolutely ANYTHING for fear they�ll disappear in a puff of their own spontaneous unfashionableness and denizen of any mercilessly gentrified area of your home town and have fun with the joke!) as they suddenly worry they�ve missed out on being at the forefront of some cutting edge facial hair trend.

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