A Lady in London

I love to people-watch. I do it at restaurants, sidewalk cafes and airports. I do it at events, parties and conferences. I do it wherever and whenever I can. On Tuesday afternoon my boyfriend and I headed out west to watch the horse races at Royal Ascot, the most famous horse racing venue in the world (according to the English, who can be trusted when it comes to such things, as they ruled most of the world for a time).

Having bad luck and a marked lack of experience in horse racing, I was primarily focused on the fabulous people-watching opportunities that the event offered. My boyfriend, being equally ambivalent toward racing, was mostly there to humor me and drink a couple glasses of Pimm’s and lemonade.

We arrived just in time for the Royal Procession, during which select members of the royal family arrive in horse-drawn carriages. While the English waited patiently for their Queen, I busied myself taking pictures of all the fabulous hats they connived to wear for the occasion. As the red-coated band struck up a melancholy–and oh-so-nostalgic-English–rendition of the Beatles’ Yesterday, I struck up a snappy version of the oh-so-American photo-op.

As it was a school day, we didn’t have much time to spend at the races. We watched an event, ate our obligatory fish n’ chips (organic, free range, and served in a biodegradable container, of course), and ogled at all the ladies in their fine racing attire. After a couple hours, we headed towards the gates to leave the premises.

In all the time we spent at the event, it never occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one people-watching. In fact, there were a number of people there that were assigned specifically to that very task.

And so it was that just as my boyfriend and I were about to leave the races a man in a suit and sunglasses came up behind me and ‘begged my pardon.’ ‘I’m a modeling scout,’ he said. ‘We’re doing a competition for the Face of Ascot, and we would like you to fill out an application.’

I couldn’t pass up the opportunity, so I walked with the scout to fill out the application and have my two Polaroid photos taken. ‘Should I smile?’ I asked. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Just look natural.’ What he didn’t know was that ‘natural’ for me is somewhat akin to ‘serial killer’ (just ask anyone who saw my former corporate ID badge at Goldman), as my non-smiling pose tends to look fairly threatening.

So the scout took my mug shots (and mug shots they were!) and I walked away laughing at how ridiculous the English would find an American contender for their prize. ‘We will contact you two days from now if you are one of the five finalists,’ the Terms & Conditions read. With my application being piled on top of at least 50 others, I was just about ready to toss the paperwork. Just about.

And so when I received a voicemail this afternoon telling me that I was one of the five finalists chosen for the competition I was completely shocked. My first reaction was to start giggling, after which I composed myself and told my colleague. He diplomatically expressed his congratulations. My boyfriend was even more supportive, as he had been excited about the prospect of a free lunch on Saturday (forget the modeling part, he wanted the food!).

So now I am in the surreal-hilarious stage of limbo between being selected as a finalist in a competition I never intended to enter but am very flattered to have been chosen for, and the actual event on Saturday during which I will be paraded in front of judges, cameras, lunch, and the BBC (tune in on Saturday afternoon at 3pm to see me live!), and possibly even presenting the trophy to the winner of the final race if I win the whole thing (highly unlikely once they find out I’m a Yankee). There may even be odds on me for betting purposes, which is probably the scariest part (good thing the English seem to favor the underdog!).

In the end, I went to Royal Ascot expecting to discover some choice people-watching opportunities and it turns out I was one people were watching. Stay tuned…