The trouble with us black girls is that we all look alike. How's a chap supposed to be able to tell the difference between, say, Alek Wek and, um, another black woman who looks nothing like her? London Fashion Week may be over, the champagne drunk and the canapés dutifully ignored, but I'm still mad about one particular story.

No, it's not my usual allergic reaction to the sea of flesh and nipples on parade, though obviously that narked me somewhat. Nor is it frustration at the lack of black models on the catwalk: for once, that particular cup looked half full rather than half empty (well, a quarter full at least). The story that has me so riled is that of style writer Didi Danso, who, according to one report, spent "a week of being mistaken for the Sudanese model" Wek. Now, while I'm sure Danso was thrilled to some extent, it must also have been more than a little irksome. For a start, though obviously good-looking, she looks nothing like Wek. Sure, there are similarities - they both have eyes and teeth, for example, but other than the basics that's pretty much it. They're not even the same colour; Wek is a deep blue/black and Danso a much lighter reddish-brown.

And what about Alek? The woman's a supermodel, for goodness' sake. Surely one perk is that people know who you actually are? No one has "mistaken" me for Alek yet, but I have been variously likened to Skin, Mel B, Macy Gray, Naomi Campbell and Iman - with boring regularity. Granted, all these women are black, and I may have had a vaguely similar hairstyle to a couple of them at the time but, with the exception of Iman, it drives me nuts. (Before you stick pins in my face, I'm not likening myself to Iman, but at least we are from the same neck of the woods, geographically speaking.)

And don't for a minute think it's a compliment. It's not. Go ask a redhead who "looks like Patsy Palmer". All it shows is that the person in question can't be bothered to see beyond the most obvious thing about my appearance.