Every 15 minutes or so on the commercial TV channels.
The floatywalkers are everywhere: beautiful, slender, with clouds of silky hair and satin skin, they floatywalk through life, cooing 'Because I'm worth it' and 'mmm Danone' in gentle voices, peeking sideways through almond eyes as they gently bounce in slow motion, tossing their glossy manes from side to side...
Poor floatywalkers! They are condemned women, never allowed to rest; they do not work, they do not sleep; they live on a diet of licked foil lids, and every time they walk past a man, he blows their hair with a hairdryer or clamps it in a twirler, or sometimes smooths a wrinkle-lift cream on to their skin.
They can not escape; they are stuck, their legs sashaying them past beauticians until the end of time.
How painful! Mascara is slicked on to their overloaded eyelashes that can not sleep; those legs just walk, walk, walk around the world, their dresses flutter, flutter, flutter in the artificial breeze, their long limbs are uselessly employed in an endless, gorgeous traipse through beige scenery where occasional companions sip cocktails and look on admiringly.
They may be fifty, and don't look it; they may be lying, and don't realise. The floattywalkers sold their brains and souls to the advertising industry long ago, and atop each head and hidden from view is a small slot, akin to that of a piggybank, for money to be inserted when the floatywalker slows down.
'Why do you do it?', we ask.
"Because I'm worth it', they reply, automatically.