‘You’re not being vain,’ the man with the clever hands holding a felt-tip pen assures me as he draws circles on my legs.
The year is 2002. I’m 26 and my boyfriend won’t marry me. My nasty inner voice whispers to me late at night, ‘He won’t marry a fatty’.
This is one of the reasons I find myself preparing to have liposuction on my thighs.
The cosmetic surgeon’s office looks nothing like a hospital. If I didn’t know better I could be fooled into thinking I am visiting the offices of a high-end lawyer or accountant. The only give-away is that I’m wishing I’d worn better undies — a thought that’s never crossed my mind while discussing my tax.