The Diary of a Top-end Mannequin

It is the first day of the summer sales. There is an excitement amongst us as we peer out onto to the busy, sunny streets. Young, pretty things teeter on scandalously high heels, miniskirts grazing a cross section of thighs. Some are still pale, victims of unpredictable summer days. Some are tanned from holidays in sunny climes.

Across the street, a group of merry makers sink a few pints outside a trendy pub cum eatery. Tourists exchange Euros for t-shirts with the Union Jack and I love London across the front at a souvenir shop. Inside the department store, the tills are ringing. It’s been crazy since the doors opened at 10am. There were queues at 9am. We call them the HSA, short for Hardcore Sales Addicts. They are the ones who are first in, pushing and shoving, manners forgotten, to get their hands on the latest Georgina Von Etzsdorf scarf or the newest Sony gadget reduced by 10%.

The sales are the highlight of the year. Of course, they now seem to start earlier and last longer, but they make up for the rest of the year when our days are often dull and uneventful. There is the possibility of seeing the security people running after someone pick pocketing. The window shops are brighter and clearer than ever. We are arranged into the most beguiling poses, our delicate necks garlanded with bright, silky scarves or colourful necklaces. The male mannequins also look dashing in linen suits, hats jauntily sitting on their perfectly-coiffed heads.

Of course, we are high-maintenance. We are regularly polished and buffed. We wear the latest fashions and accessories. Our skin is flawless, our hair perfect, our bodies to be envied. We are made of the best quality fiberglass, unlike the wax models of the past. How easily they melted and got deformed. Their bodies were curvier and heavier, not anything like our slender selves.

We see all the glamourous people as they shop, arms laden with big shopping bags, flashing black or platinum American Express cards. We have everyone stop and stare at us, admiring our smart but casual poses. It’s all good. We don’t want to think of what will happen to us when we retire to be replaced by some shinier, more elegant upstarts. For now though, life is good. C’est la vie en rose.