SO BRITISH fashionistas Trinny Woodall and Susannah Constantine are soon heading for our shores. They certainly have their work cut out for them.
I don't for a moment suggest Australians lack style and dress sense, it's just that the task ahead of them is, well, overwhelming weather-wise.
Their expertise is not in question.
I have gaped in wonder as Trinny, with her hot potato accent, merrily rips jeans off perfect strangers in American malls. I have gaped at Susannah's sheer cheek as, quite without rancour or retribution, she tells middle-aged women they look like a tent looking for a circus.
And oh, the transformations. Dowdy, grey women have become curvaceous, sexy, downright foxy, ladies under their expert eyes. Frumpy 30-somethings stride out with new-found vigour, resplendent in their sweeping trench coats, jaunty silk scarves and pants that skim, dahling, skim.
I have gaped as podgy 50-somethings suddenly discover they have curvaceous calves when newly pedicured feet are levered from sensible walking shoes and slipped sensuously into slender, strappy heels.
At the style icons' command, beauty experts have tweezed and transformed.
Their team of hair wizards have coloured, foiled and snipped tired locks to silky perfection. Their magical touch of style has known no bounds.
Trinny and Susannah have reached the pinnacle of success – endorsed by Oprah, feted by the rich and famous, adored by millions. But have they ever tackled the Queensland heat? I beg of you, Trinny and Susannah, you have not a moment to waist, sorry, waste.
Watch and learn when you see the heat melt the bitumen and observe women of all shapes and sizes let style slide in the pursuit of coolness. I ask that you not observe from the false comfort of shopping centres, get out there where the real people are.
When temperatures soar, you will witness that a singlet and shorts are all the most self-respecting woman can muster. A dress must skim, not for style, but for fear of its fabric sticking to the sweat that accumulates under the bust and slow-trickles from bra to knickers.
Not for me hello mamma knickers up to my armpits. I see the virtues of lifting saggy arse, smoothing cellulite and creating clean lines. I accept the importance they play in creating the great illusion of style.
And yet, I break out into a sweat at the thought of their suffocating synthetic fullness – let me hang loose!
And how I long to burn my bra.
I know silk-stockinged legs are sexy and sleek. But oh, Susannah, for fear of expiring, I must leave mine exposed and freckled. Instead of sexy heels, I opt for comfortable and cool flats.
The heat, Trinny, is a great leveller. Have you ever tried walking in heels in the humidity? Ever found your toes splayed, making a bid for freedom as they slide on their slippery soles?
As for flabby upper arms, there's just nowhere to hide. The not-so-taut tum and bum are also there for all to see in a relentless quest for sweat control.
I think not of the nubile young things – fine for them the strappy, barely there dresses, exposed, plump and bronzed midriffs – youth covers a multitude of sins. I speak of those who have just sneaked past their prime – no longer resembling plump fruit but more like a nectarine left a tad too long in the fruit bowl.
I speak of hair that's damp and listless, or frizzes in the wrong places. And have you ever encountered hat hair, Susannah? Have your tresses ever stuck to your head in a sweaty halo?
And Trinny, what advice do you have for the sweat-beaded upper lip, the make-up that slips off one's face in a smudge not unlike a mini mud slide?
I shall await your arrival with freshly tweezed brows, buffed heels and bated breath. Pick me!