I'm a Barbie girl

I was stood outside Topshop on Monday harrassing women. Not in a strange way; I was asking them about Barbie for a radio piece.

We have mock news days every Monday, where we perform the function of a real radio news team, and I had improved my dress accordingly. Resplendent in newish brown boots, close fitting jeans, flamboyant white belt, metrosexual scarf and retro red leather jacket, I confidently strutted up to gaggle after gaggle, asking ladies about their favourite Barbies, favourite Barbie memories and the like.

I was shocked out of my pretend reporting when a young boy, who could have been no older than five, ran up to me with a cheeky grin on his face, as if the little royster-doyster was going to coyly give me a picture he'd crayoned or such like. Instead of giving me a charmingly daubed image, however, he merely shouted "You look like a puff."

Quite taken aback, I sternly inquired "Excuse me?" to the tracksuit clad youngster.

Unabashed, he repeated "You look like a puff."

At this point, the child's father came running up behind him with a friend. I awaited an embarrassed apology and enthused retraction. It did not come.

Instead of chastising his odious offspring and compelling him to say sorry, the father had a rather different message - "Tell him again, son!" - he proudly commanded.

"You look like a puff, you do." The son faithfully repeated, before adding, "A big puff."

The father and his friend caught up with their son, stopped, looked at me and laughed. I began to glare back, and a stand-off may well have ensued, but the tension was broken when I spotted a giggly group of girls leaving Topshop.

I cleared my throat. "Excuse me girls, did you know it's Barbie's 50th birthday today?"