When I Was a Game of Thrones Model

It was a Saturday morning in July a few years ago, when I was about twenty-one and working in a delicatessen. Mr Pork Chop (so called because he bought one every week, cut extra thin) was paying for his shopping when he suddenly asked if I’d ever modelled.

“Hahaha,” I said, “not yet.” Well, would I ever? He pressed. I shrugged. Because, he said, he happened to be a freelance photographer, and he was looking for an extra model for his next shoot. Would I be interested?

“Well, yeah,” I said. “I suppose so.”

“It’s Game of Thrones themed,” he said, “it’s very popular at the moment.” So, I gave him my mobile number and off he went.

“I’ve never seen Game of Thrones,” I said to my boss, “have you?”

“No. It’s all dragons and stuff, though. I think it’s a bit like Lord of the Rings.”




Nobody thought it was a good idea.

Game of Thrones is filthy”, one of my friends told me crossly. “You’re going to end up dead in a field somewhere wearing a toga.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” I said confidently. “He must be nearly eighty. I reckon I could take him on.”

My granny was in hospital at the time, recovering from emergency surgery.

“I’m going to be a model, Nan,” I said smugly. I told her the story, and she raised her eyebrows.

“Well, we’d better say our goodbyes now, dear.”

The day of the shoot arrived, and off I went to Leiston Abbey, a beautiful ruin about 45 minutes away from where I live. I’d been given a letter with some details about the day, saying that there ought to be a few photographers coming along, and another model called Megan, who was from Norfolk. “So, there will be other girls there, there’s me from Suffolk and her from Norfolk,” I told my mum.

“Diversity,” she said, nodding.

I’d had a go at curling my hair, bought a long green dress from ASOS (which nobody liked) and a chunky waist-cinching belt with laces. My auntie was staying with us at the time, and she decided to come along with me and my mum (who was still suspicious about the whole thing) for the ride. My auntie was more excited about the day than I was, and arrived downstairs in full, dramatic makeup, her best sari and a pair of high wedges.

It was pouring with rain the entire journey.

We arrived, and Mr Pork Chop came rushing towards us, holding a huge umbrella. There were about three other photographers there, a few having decided that there was no point trying to take photos in the rain, although admittedly, it had now thinned to a soggy drizzle.

Megan had arrived early and was already being photographed, so I never really got a chance to speak with her. The photographers all took it in turns to take me to various alcoves and somewhat-sheltered parts of the abbey. My auntie squelched along after us, taking her own pictures on her phone and trying not to slide over in the mud. At one point, she leaned right over the photographer’s shoulder to snap her a picture. He turned around and stared at her. “Don’t mind me, just joining in!” she beamed.

In the end, it was quite fun. The photographers tried to explain how I should drape myself against the crumbling walls and stare moodily into the middle distance, but I never really got the hang of it. One of them suggested I take my sandals off. I declined.

After about an hour and half, we decided to cut the day short. We were supposed to drive out to the nearest beach and do some posing there, but the rain was getting steadily worse, and my mum was pretty sure she could hear actual thunder (she was also pretty bored). So, I was paid about £45 if I remember rightly, we piled back in the car and off we went.

And that is the story of how I came to be a Game of Thrones model.



*Photo by mauRÍCIO SANTOS on Unsplash

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