“The bikini: a badge of fitness and phwoar”

EVERY spring, as sure as daffodils bloom, so does the idea that women should worry, diet and exercise their way to bikini-ready bodies.

Magazines compound the idea that this ground-work is absolutely crucial, with all the subtlety of a club-hammer. They scream, “IS YOUR BODY BIKINI-READY? and “BIKINI-BODY COUNTDOWN STARTS NOW!”, as if this bikini-test was on a par with the HPAT and only a donut-eating shirker would settle for a one-piece.

On four occasions in its lifetime, my body has swelled to the size of a space hopper in honour of my babies. It has pushed them out into the world and fed them. Because of this — and because I’m the kind of person who’s never put much store by my body, beyond its ability to race around doing the stuff it needs to do, my flesh now has about the same consistency as warm Play-Doh: all-over soft.