One of the (few) things I enjoy about getting up at 6am to run 5km around Tirana’s lake is the people watching I get to do as I go. 

There are tanned, wrinkly old men in equally wrinkly leather sports shoes, shuffling along at a snail’s pace. There are the packs of older women, all under 5ft 3, clucking and chatting at once, and all with the same shade of red/brown dyed hair. There is the solitary oboist who plays beautiful jazz music whilst sitting on a bench near the amphitheatre. But my favourite out of all of them has to be the ‘Glamourazzi’.

Let me paint you a picture.

Me when I run: hair plastered back, not a scrap of makeup, red blotchy skin, a fine layer of sweat, optional baby spit up (thank you Dea, I didn’t notice the stealth vomit you did on my shoulder before I left the house this morning), odd socks, leggings with a few stray cat hairs and pained facial expression tinged with despair

The Glamourazzi: glossy blowdried manes of hair swooshing in rhythm with their delicate, designer-clad feet that barely seem to touch the ground, spray-on designer lycra in shades of ‘muted mulberry’ and ‘dove grey’, false eyelashes firmly affixed, not a bead of sweat to be seen on their perfectly made-up faces, and a general look of having just stepped out of a Nike advert.

How do they do it?

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