Sophie Heawood: The sweet life in Gwynnie's scented bubble

Our writer marvels at Paltrow's blissfully insular world

Oh, Gwyneth Paltrow. I have long admired your willowy gait, your innocent sunlit face, and the way you always look ever so slightly embarrassed, as if somebody standing near you has just uttered the word "fart". And yet, most of all, I admire your unique ability to pretend to be other people for a living – while remaining blissfully unaware of how any other people in the world live.

As a fan of your online lifestyle mailout Goop, that you write for motivations I have never quite understood, I am reminded of your blissful bubblehood every time I read it. Goop is aimed at busy working mothers like yourself, just trying to juggle and jiggle through the day the best they can. Y'know, just getting dressed, feeding the bairns, marrying rockstars, winning Oscars, weeping.

And then, last week, it reached its zenith, with your Day In The Life diary about what it is like being you! About how, during your long and busy day, you tried on so many different pretty dresses that you caught body odour! Of how you felt so terrible about the kids eating a cupcake that you baked, except it was alright really because they had a brown rice stir-fry first! About how distressing it had been to wake up at the crack of something and discover the digital display on the coffee machine reading ERROR!

And yet still – through all this bitter and tortuous hardship – you manage to get your son to take his nutritional supplement of lemon-flavoured flax oil! (In fact, that poor four-year-old boy was a bit weepy, so you took him to school and then stood staring at him through the classroom window, and he kept staring back at you until, finally, you decided it was OK to walk away. You can sort of tell his dad is in Coldplay.)

It is not that you aren't genuinely busy, Gwyneth. Truly you are. To quote you: "Did dance aerobics for 45 minutes, then all of the butt lifts and the like. Rushed upstairs to have a shower, doing my post-workout stretch while the conditioner was doing its magic on my hair to combine activities/save time."

You go on to have meetings, international phone calls, and work on 400 other things in your office. After nearly 1,000 words of this I am quite tired from reading the enormous list of things you have done today, at which point you drop the bombshell that it is only 2pm. I need to have a lie down with some chips. You don't.

The other day, oddly enough, I actually met your personal trainer, Tracy Anderson. She told me that she and you have worked so hard together on a gruelling dance-based regime that you can now eat anything you want and stay in shape.

Anything? Anything! "Gwyneth called me yesterday," said your coach, "and she was so excited. She said, 'Tracy! I ate three meals today!'"

And then there was that Vanity Fair article where a schoolfriend recalled your gym-changing-room days and how you, with your goddess-like figure, had happily remarked out loud how, like, amazing it was how different the other girls' bodies were. And I remember when you had to wear a fat suit for that film Shallow Hal, and you went on some chat show and got quite emotional about the journey you had been on, wearing the big blobby thing and learning how terrible it was for fat people. Not how hard it was to be overweight and face such prejudice in our society, but just that it was, like, gross.

Oh, Gwyneth. I wonder if, while undergoing your fat-suit torment, you ever had to fart. I dream of this for you, Gwyneth. I dream of this.