Two different childhoods. The first, mine – when we would gather around for the yearly treat of Miss World. For two hours, the TV exploded into impossible glamour – frothing pink tulle; skintight red-sequined sheaths; midnight blue ballgowns, with tiny silver shoes poking out beneath.
Everything about it was fabulous – the glittery staircase the girls descended down; the flattering rose-pink lighting; raven-wing false eyelashes trembling on perfect, caramel cheeks. I’m pretty sure if you’d measured the dopamine levels in the five girls in our front room – watching while eating a massive pile of crackers and cheese – you would have found them sky-high. It was colour, and sparkle, and girls, in a world where most TV shows seemed to centre around men in