Everyone's a winner in a catwalk celebration.

Byline: Hilarie Stelfox

THOSE of you who own a teenager will be familiar with the use of the word 'fail', as in the commonly-uttered phrase 'that's an epic fail.' I'm told by considerably younger colleagues this is an American affectation. Together with expressions such as 'shut up' (meaning 'fancy that' or 'get away with you') and 'bad' or 'sick' ('good'), it forms part of a language that fully-fledged adults find puzzling which is how it should be.

And woe betide the grown-up who tries to join in, because anyone old enough to be paying utility bills will, inevitably, discover that they are an embarrassing 'pile of fail'.

I am frequently described in such terms by Firstborn, not because I can't do teenspeak (I don't go there) but because I fail in so many other ways, mainly to do with being inept, disorganised and clumsy.

Because of my 'total fail' at washing up we don't have a single complete set of glasses in the house. My scarred knees - both of them - dislocated ring finger, chipped elbow bone and broken toe bear testament to the fact that I'm also a 'fail' at walking upright.

Our new dining table, fabricated from highly-polished mango wood and treasured by the Man-in-Charge, has a large chip in the centre from when I dropped a water jug on it. In fact, there's not a room in our house that doesn't have some sign of 'fail' inflicted by me. I won't even start on the contents of my wardrobe other than to briefly mention the red wine stains, torn hems and incident of the indelible marker.

Yes, I'm a total 'fail'. And not, said the Man-in-Charge, the sort of person that anyone organising a fashion show would want to have on the catwalk or handling haute couture. "You'll fall off. Or over," he predicted, when I told him that I'd been invited to take part in the annual Breast Cancer Fashion Show, organised by the breast care nurses who look after patients in Calderdale and Huddersfield. I did what I usually do and ignored the negativity.

"You should look at YouTube," said The Boy, helpfully, "there are loads of catwalk fails on that."

I thought it best that I didn't. Nor did I check out the catwalk fails on www.epicfail.com or any of the other websites dedicated to 'fail' in all its many forms.

Instead I decided to opt for 'win', the opposite of 'fail' and another key word in the teenspeak lexicon.

In fact, the whole ethos of the fashion show can be summed up with the word 'win.' The models, apart from me and my pal Di (a fellow journalist from Calderdale), were all patients who have recovered or are recovering from treatment for breast cancer.

Each year such patients are invited to proudly strut their stuff in a celebration of life.

It was both humbling and a privilege to be asked to join them.

We spent the day practising our walking and trying not to do a Naomi Campbell (who once stumbled in an epic fail while wearing unfeasibly high Vivienne Westwood platform shoes); changing in and out of our outfits and doing what women do best - talking about everything and anything.

And no-one fell over, not even me, everyone looked fabulous and the audience could not have cheered more loudly, even if Linda Evangelista herself had been on the catwalk. What's more I didn't damage the merchandise even a teeny bit.

"I feel a bit of a fraud," Di confided as we waited in the wings for our moment in the spotlight.

And I had to agree, because all day we'd been listening as the women shared their experiences. Some were still wearing wigs after losing all their hair during chemotherapy, others had the visible scars of surgery. They had a camaraderie and empathy with each other that we were not a part of. They deserved the limelight, we didn't.

Not that we weren't included as they laughed and joked. Compliments flew thick and fast as outfits were admired and the hairdressers and make-up artists did their stuff. "It's just such a fantastic day," said one of the women, who had modelled in a previous show. "Everyone keeps telling you how great you look. It's such a positive experience to spend a whole day with no criticism and having fun."

The cancer journey, as breast care nurse Veronica Allinson, calls it, may be long and arduous but, as all the 'winners' on the catwalk showed on Monday night, it's one that is made easier by being shared. And it's most definitely one that can be survived.

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CATWALK QUEENS: stars of the Breast Cancer Fashion show (PC210909Ffashion-05.jpg)