I’ll give you an example. There could be loads of comments on an Instagram post, with people saying they hate a dress I’ve worn. But if I can see that thousands of people have clicked through and bought that dress, it doesn’t matter what people are saying; the numbers speak for themselves, and I’ll try something similar again.

When I’m not shooting content, I tend to spend my everyday life in skimpy gym wear, but I never wear this online. Some context you should probably know is that my following is 90% women. I’d say 8% of the remainder are gay men (the other 2% are weird rich old men who I tend to steer clear of). I know that women tend to not like their arms, so if I wear a beautiful maxi dress that has sleeves, it’ll sell out and earn me money with affiliate links. If I wear a sleeveless mini dress, it won’t. The audience that shops from my content (as opposed to just viewing it) tends to skew older, too – around 50-60 – so I’ll get dressed with them in mind. Cinched-in waists and covered-up styles, for example. This is the woman I think about when I shop, even if I’m buying things I’d never wear in real life.

I don’t see the point of buying clothes that are just for me; I have so many that I make content with, so I tend to wear the clothes I film in for my everyday life, too. But is it my style? Probably not. I haven’t shopped just for me since I started doing this job around seven years ago. Plus, in my downtime, I generally don’t do anything that isn’t related to my job. I know that sounds weird, but my social life with this job is fantastic – I have lots of influencer friends and brands will often invite us to events together. But it means that I’m still turning up as the online me even in my downtime. And that’s why I’m so stumped when it’s time to go on a date.

“I’m a fashion influencer with a million followers. Of course everything I wear is calculated”