Okay, people, what the hell is a prêt line? Which more or less says all that there is to be said about my fashionableness quotient. But let me elaborate.

You're thinking this is going to be a sour grapes piece because Manish Malhotra didn't ask me instead of Kajol and Preity Zinta to walk the ramp wearing his…omigosh, I don't even know the name of his collection. But I know that Sabyasachi Mukherjee's collection is called "The Snail". I heard Sabyasachi explain to Sreenivasan Jain in an interview on NDTV why he chose that name. It all sounded terribly intellectual and arty but I didn't understand a word then and I can't remember a word now. However, I do remember thinking one possible reason would be that everyone - or at least unfashionable plates like me - will be so puzzled by the name that they will remember it. And see, I do. "The Snail". Lovely. I'm told his earlier collection was called "Frog Princess". Maybe I can call my collection "The Dung Beetle". Or how about "The Karela"? Or then just simply "Loofah"? Anyway, no need to rush as the next LIFW (in Internet chat rooms, that would probably be a very rude set of alphabets to say to your chat buddy) is a while away and my chances of becoming anything close to a fashion designer a tad further. But do send in your entries anyway because the winning entry will get a year's supply of whatever it is that you name my collection after. For obvious reasons, names like Penthouse-in-Malibu and Brad Pitt will be disqualified.

Talking of names, I'm secretly glad that I don't wear Sabyasachi's clothes. (Though I'm sure he's going to beg me to the minute we meet.) Because what would I call him every time I pop into his er, studio is it and we air kiss? Can't be "Sabyasachi" because I'd trip over it dreadfully every time and sprain my tongue. Which would be both embarrassing and inconvenient because then how would I tell him that ecru isn't really my colour or that we should go slow and give the over-dyed crochet a skip as a choice of material for the underwear to go with my outfits for the Aishwarya-Abhishek wedding. (They're getting married? Dunno, really. But no harm in being prepared.) Oh, dear, I should have said "lingerie", yes? Only people in baniyan ads say "underwear" and only mustachioed wardens of girls' hostels wear them, right? I might as well have said chaddi or kachcha....

The point is, I'm at least trying. To be fashionable, that is. Because in life, who knows? I might just yet walk down the next LIFW, WIFW (any relation of WWF?) ramp wearing a Sabyasachi à la Preity-Kajol-Manish. So I'm practising my ramp walk. And as a back-up, I am also planning my collection which will be inspired by the structured lines of vada pav and the colours of Brihanagar Mumbai Pallika's rubbish dumps.... But that's the future.

The present? Well, what can I say? In public, I perfect my feminist-frump sneer and rant about anorexia and the disgrace of clothes that cost as much as an average Indian's trousseau fund. But, in private, I watch F-TV and heave gusty sighs of longing and despair. At the undulating fields of slender, willowy legs flashing in and out of wondrous wisps of fabrics I don't even know the names of. At the seas of silken bottoms bobbing saucily in and out of Victoria's Secret and swimwear that would set the Mediterranean Sea on fire. At the acres of pouting gorgeousness and mincing nonchalant elegance. As I do, I desperately tell myself that real men prefer women with a bit more er, flesh on them. (Then how come Arun Nayar is dating Elizabeth Hurley and Richard Gere was Cindy Crawford's baa-lamb and not mine?) That one day, childbearing hips and thunder thighs will be the rage and it will be "fashion bowl" and not "fashion plate". (when?) And I ask myself, would I swap two slabs of chocolate truffle cake for two sticks of carrot…er, sorry juliennes of carrot, a bread stick and a cup of hot water just to look like Heidi Klum? I can't tell you what my answer is on grounds that it will incriminate me.

Heidi Klum. Hmm. I'm a very optimistic person, but even to me, things don't look too good. For even if I draw myself up to my full height, I will probably be a few inches shorter than the length of an average model's legs and we won't even talk about the rest of khatey-peetey me. High heels give me a crashing headache within five minutes of wearing them. So my only chances of becoming a fashion model is if I quickly become very rich or the Princess of Bikaner or Jaya Bachchan.

That leaves my chances of being one of the Beautiful People, fit enough to rub my spaghetti-strapped shoulders with other BPs in the front row of the LIFW. Well, the thing is I am one of the Beautiful People but nobody can see it because I believed all those beauty queens and that inner beauty stuff. And while I wait for my inner Page Three Person to get out (it will, it will), there are other things that I have to fix. Apart from my thighs and stretching myself from 5'2" to 5'9", I have to learn that there is no such thing as purple, only "aubergine". I have to find myself a corsetière. (Till I started writing this piece, I thought that's a kind of pastry shop.) And try not to remember what me mum said - that nice girls don't go to LIFW wearing only their underwear. Oh all right, lingerie. And learn how to pronounce Sabyasachi. (Do you think he'd like "Saby-baby"? Or then just "Kiss-kiss"?)

Incidentally, have you ever noticed how easy it is to tell who the designer is in a fashion show? At the end, it's the odd-looking creature at least two heads shorter (three if it's a man) than all the models, who scurries onto the stage, looking just like you and me. (Except for Manish Malhotra who is quite gorgeous.) I'd like to see one of them wearing a structured pink balloon skirt over discharge printed pencil cut pants.

I know. That is definitely a touch of sour grapes but I'm human aren't I? I am also hopeful. Look what the fabulous Diana Vreeland, reigning deity of international fashion for over 50 years and who coined the word "pizzazz" said, "With health, a good figure and brown skin in the summer, people should spend very little money on their clothes…. The only real elegance is in the mind; if you've got that, the rest really comes from it." I've cracked the good health and my brown skin is kinda a year round thing. Now I just have to work on the figure....