On the subject of loving one’s legs… I am vast approaching my 30th birthday and I am panicking about it; convinced that as soon as the clock strikes 00:01 on 15th April, I am going to fall off a great cliff into a big black hole and life will cease to exist as I know it, and if I haven’t achieved everything I want to in life before this ominous, profound date, well I might as well quit now and just drink prosecco all day, gorge on chocolate, only wear sequins, eat all the cheese and scream like a fox in the night. I have a feeling 00:01 on 15th April might be like any other 00:01 and the months beyond the big 3-0 will be like any other months unless me, myself and I bloody well do something to make them different, but hey ho, still stressing out like a new mother about to dislocate her hip in order to get something the size of a man’s leg out of her vagina.

Anyway, legs. More specifically, knees. 30 year old knees. 30 year old squidgy, rubbish knees in all their niggling glory. I have had an issue with said knees since about Year 8 when hockey was suddenly a compulsory addition to the syllabus, and therefore every Friday one would have to roll up the knee-high bottle green woolen socks and skulk onto the pitch hoping everyone would be too preoccupied with where the bloody ball was going than my newly revealed ugly twin sisters.

Suffice to say, I always prayed that by the time I reached ripe 30 I would finally have sophisticated knees, bony, beautiful and beach worthy, instead of still being lumbered with these old things that continue to resemble E.T.’s face.

But I’m still working on it.