Blind with mascara, dumb with lipstick

I AM at a photo shoot in London for a big media feature on my book, which is out this week.

The shoot is in a fancy studio — downstairs, there are pop stars that I am too old to have heard of. Upstairs, it’s me, the photographer, several assistants, a picture editor, and a make-up artist. And several tons of make-up.

The make-up artist is young and beautiful, and daubs me in so much slap I look like a drag queen. This is so I don’t look bleached under the studio lights, she tells me, as she brushes on more layers, tweezes on false eyelash extensions and paints my nails so the dirt doesn’t show. I have done photo-shoots before, but never with such intense attention to detail. It is an odd feeling, having your feet professionally made up. Yes, feet.