Parents of small children expect new experiences. But Gerard Reynoldsnever imagined that a stint on the catwalk would be part of his parental duties
A FUNDRAISING fashion show sounded like a great idea in the school newsletter. In these recessionary times, you really have to admire such initiatives. Mums and dads required, the flyer continued. Well, that clearly doesn't apply to me. Indeed I was surprised the line wasn't asterixed with a disclaimer that "unfashionable daddies need not apply".
My six-year-old daughter had other ideas. She clearly decided I was far too reticent, lacked confidence, and I just needed to get out there and join in more or else I'd be left behind and would never have a friend.
She took matters into her own dainty hands, and a few days later I received an unexpected letter from the organising teacher, thanking me for "volunteering" and requesting my sizes.
"It's all for my school," my daughter explained, as I absorbed the content and the implications of the words before me.
She batted her big brown eyes as I waited for her to follow up with a "think of the children", or some other such guff. Glaring back at her and ignoring the smug titters of my wife, I decided that to pull out would be churlish and that indeed it was for a good cause.
And that perhaps with a moderate intake of some controlled substances beforehand, I could even pull it off.
I'd love to be able to say I spent the following weeks in Rocky Balboa mode, pounding the pavements of my neighbourhood - greeting well-wishers throughout - in an attempt to shape up for the big event. Instead I spent sleepless nights imagining myself collapsing through or falling off the catwalk in front of a silent crowd, the wife rocking silently back and forth with her head in her hands, daughter weeping with embarrassment and ruing the day she put my name forward.
I anxiously watched my stomach on a daily basis to see if there was any hint of muscle emerging on the pasty-white frame. Alas no sign, although admittedly had it done so nobody would have been more surprised than me.
I also took a sudden and tragic interest in The Janice Dickinson Modelling Agency programme, taking notes throughout: walk, pout, turn around, walk back, attend champagne-laden and totty-thronged party.
The rehearsals had a distinct touch of the Full Monty about them. A group of anxious and unmodel-like men nervously introduced themselves before shuffling down the outline of a catwalk taped to the floor of the cavernous hall.
The occasional enthusiastic yelps of "whhhooohooo" from the sole lady in the room - someone who to that point we had considered a respectable member of the teaching profession - gave us a mere glimpse of what lay ahead.
For almost an hour we practised walking (who knew?) while simultaneously removing jackets, obeying the barked instructions of the show director, and cursing our offspring and the primary education system under our collective breaths.
After one wrong turn too many, I really wanted to throw a tantrum, demand champagne and lash out at a few innocent bystanders with my mobile phone.
As the day of the show dawned, I tried to rationalise my fear. A mere four 20-second turns on the catwalk - a total of 80 seconds of my life - and by the end could bask in the glory of my achievement for the remainder of the academic year if not my daughter's tenure in primary education.
However, once I arrived at the venue and took in the real-life catwalk (disturbingly even longer than the practice version), the sea of seats and the advice of a tipsily enthusiastic bystander ("once you're on, work it!"), the nerves hit again.
A few generous GTs (courtesy of a parent's emergency stash) were hastily dished out to the reluctant throng. My dear daughter had no time for such nerves and other foibles, and urged me to just get on with it and quit being such a baby. I trust she'll adopt the same hardline approach throughout her own life.
The dads managed to somehow beat themselves into the slinky Italian clothing that was unfortunately designed more for the leaner, Latin type than the spud-loving Irishman.
We persevered and, as the aforementioned refreshments helped steady the nerves, we swapped garments, paired accessories and discussed the relative merits of scarf-tying methods.
A level of bonding and camaraderie ensued which could only be dreamed of by those corporate team-building types.
And who needs Trinny and Susannah, because by the end of our titivations we had somehow managed to produce a motley crew of reasonably respectable-looking guys, all ready to be fed to the heaving masses. We could not resist a moment of silent pride.
The excitement reached fever pitch as the hundreds of girls and their parents grew impatient. Following a quick prayer circle and back-slapping session, we were individually thrust into the glare of the spotlight to the thumping sounds of Daddy Cool.
Buoyed by the pre-show refreshments and the feelgood factor in the room, the bevy of beauties hurled themselves down the catwalk like their lives - or at the very least a two-year contract with Assets - depended on it. The audience were clearly lifted straight from the X-Factor studio, with the slightest move greeted with entirely disproportionate howls of approval.
All nerves were forgotten as we strutted and we waved, all the while frantically holding in our stomachs and praying the Italian linen didn't fail us.
I searched for my daughter in the audience, waiting to see her tears of pride and perhaps even a homemade "Go on dad" sign, so abundant on Winning Streak.
However, she obviously felt that such vulgar displays of over-enthusiasm would be uncool. Instead, her slight nodding of the head seemed to simply say "you'll do".
Soon the show and the weeks of blood, sweat, actual tears and frantically thinking up excuses were over. There was much camaraderie among everyone, and cue lots of jokes about new careers and contracts in Milan and Paris.
It was all good fun really. I felt immensely proud that I had fulfilled my parental duty and, judging by my daughter's quiet but firm handclasp on the way back to the car, she felt so too.
In fact she reckons I was so good I should sign up for next year. Now, where is that champagne?