Diaries

The lovely Kate!

In the line of beauty

All women know that feeling of defeat that courses through you when you're standing next to an amazingly beautiful girl. Suddenly the several hours you spent getting your hair right seems insufficient, that forbidden muffin you snatched at lunch must have dropped straight down to your hips, and – today more than ever – you curse whichever parent it was that caused you to have such short legs.

Thankfully, this is a situation in which few sane women choose to get themselves into. However, perhaps I do not fall into the 'sane' category. Perhaps I'd forgotten that feeling of defeat afore mentioned. Nonetheless, at precisely 4.30pm last Friday, I found myself surrounded by the most beautiful girls that York had to offer – namely, the 'Miss York 2006' semi finalists.

Kate in her Miss York get-up!

It is at this point that I will try fruitlessly to find someone to blame for my presence at the Royal York Hotel on that blustery day – however, I'm afraid there is no one to point the finger at but myself. Being, perhaps, the last person you would expect to find at any kind of beauty pageant, I had thought that sending in an application form along with several of my more beautiful friends would end in nothing.

I presumed, that come the 'Miss York' final, I would be sitting in the Grand Opera House cheering the girls on, being just another one of those plainer girls that are good at sport, speaking their mind far too often, and avoid skirts with a vengeance. Therefore, it was with good reason that my knees were trembling as I awaited my turn in the audition room.

In a style not unlike the X Factor (although, I'm pleased to say, with much kinder judges) I stood trembling in front of the panel. For a brief crazy moment, I considered singing – however badly that would turn out – anything to try and draw attention away from the fact that I was wearing the first pair of high heeled sandals that I had ever owned, and feeling terribly uncomfortable in a skirt.

Nevertheless, as the judges began to coax timid interview answers out of me, I began to settle into my rhythm. Of all my qualities, good and bad, I can at least talk for England. Whether I can represent England at the world's most prestigious beauty pageants is an entirely different matter, mind you. However, chatting away to the friendly panel in front of me, I almost forgot where I was, and what exactly I was trying to get myself into.

It would be cheesy, almost corny, to say at this point I had an epiphany. Instead, it was more of a deep realization that came to me as I was talking about the charity work I was undertaking on my gap year. Mid flow, I realised that the judges were not looking at me in order to scrutinize the size of my hips, or the fact that my make up was amateur at best.

They did not comment on the fact that my top did not match my skirt, or that I was tottering dangerously on 4 inch heels. Instead, they listening with interest and asked questions about my aims and ambitions in life, and what I had to offer the city of York. Chatting away about my love for the city, I could have been wearing jeans and a football shirt – and they still would have treated me the same way.

After posing for a quick photo, I came out of the interview room feeing considerably more positive about life in general than 15 minutes beforehand. Although a quick glance at the sea of beautiful faces looking at me expectantly brought some familiar butterflies back into the depths of my stomach, the defeatist feeling of the past was long gone.

No, I'm not nervous! Are you?

I'd be lying if I didn't say that I spent the majority of the next 24 hours checking my mobile phone for that all important message. As the time went on, I began to get messages of triumph from my beautiful friends, who had got through to the final, and who immediately began to worry about ball gowns. Time dragged on, as it always does at times like this, and then – could you believe it – I got that phone call.

It seemed appropriate that I was in a church hall toilet at the time (I had been expecting the call and so had retired to shake uncontrollably in private), and it wasn't until Ms. Lee repeated several times that I had made it to the final that I finally believed it. Unabashedly, I shrieked uncontrollably down the phone, as seems to be my nature at times like this.

And so there I was – just an ordinary 19 year old in a poky bathroom, being given news that could, potentially, change my life forever. To say that my parents were surprised is an overstatement – I like to think they're proud of me for many things, but being beautiful isn't one of them! But they, like I, now realise that those judges were not looking for the most beautiful girls, or the girls with the best fashion sense.

The current Miss England speaks five different languages and Ms. Horsley (the current Miss York) represents much more than just beauty and flair. Long gone are the pageants where ditzy blondes who wanted 'world peace' came out on top – I'm sure that whoever wins Miss York will represents our city's character – beautiful, but passionate about what they represent.

There are too many women out there worrying about the size of their thighs, and avoiding situations such as this one, where it seems as if looks are all that matters. I hope my testimony has proven otherwise!

Ball gowns at the final? I think I'll stick to jeans.

Kate

P.S. There's a 'Miss Popularity' award in Miss York where members of the public can vote for their favourite Miss York finalist - and the person with the most votes gets fast tracked to the final 12! I REALLY need your help to get through! To vote, it would be great if you could send a text message reading 'Miss 0909' to the number 84205. The money from the texting goes straight to a children's charity, its all for a good cause!

Also... can you believe it... I'm WINNING the text vote right now! Obviously they're not lookin for thin blondes after all! So it would mean the world to me if you'd vote. Check out my progress at www.eventsconnect.co.uk/textvoting.html. Thanks! (nb. The BBC is not responsible for the content of external websites).