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  • The photographer told me today as we crossed the park full of ice-cream children and ferrari fathers that his ex-girlfriend had become his girlfriend again. We'd been in the same spot a month ago on a previous shoot. I'd gone in the pavilion for a can of fresh apple juice and he'd failed to notice her sat in front of him whilst he picked the jam coloured syrup to be poured all over his sticky white cream cone. She watched me in heels and silk kimono smile at him, and wander to the gardens, lost in conversation all the way.
    "She said she felt jealous so we're on again I think, maybe, or something." Freckled boy in a tall man's skin.

    It's somewhat disconcerting. But it's not unusual. I have had this effect on women before. They snatch up men around me and shake their tail-feather asses in my direction. I really don't care. It's never happened once that the man was someone I was interested in other than a friend. I know there is no winning if the prize is not sought. I know they've imagined who I am in parallel to themselves and found themselves wanting. That's what long legs, a pretty face and slender body does to women. I got over taking it personally a while ago and I got over doing it myself with other women, when I did. There is nothing I can say to make them feel better about who they are. I've enough of a job on with myself.

    I was though, a little disappointed. I'd needed the guilt-free chemistry for the pictures I wanted today.
    I'm wooing my body back. Seeking her out, whispering to the curve of my calves and the line of breasts. I'm wanting to dip her in honey and adorn her with gems. Trace the outline of the back to the furrows of the round, round buttocks.

    With the photographer, it didn't quite work somehow. In earlier times I'd have told you it was because I was uncomfortable in my body. I've pondered on this on the ride back across the green fields and this time it's not the case.

    When I was a girl Kate Moss began to adorn the billboards and magazines, her waif like frame both fragile and sexual. I know the stuff that it brings up for bigger women, about how there are so few women with natural frames like that and how it perpetuates body dysmorphia and issues around weight. But for me, it was the first time I came to see someone with a body like mine. I was the tiny percent of real people with a body like her. On one hand it was being hailed as some (weird) kind of perfection and on the other I was being accused of having eating disorders (in a nasty catty-like tone, every-time it was mentioned) or being called permutations of 'skinny' which I heard as 'not a real woman'. From the amount of abuse I received about my body I'm glad that Kate was there - I'd never have known it was a normal one otherwise.

    My body feels different now in my mid thirties. I'm 5ft 6" and I think I weigh about 8 stone 3. I think because I don't weigh it. Never have. I have the BMI of a woman from Ethiopia. Although these days I feel quite big. I feel firm, strong and solid. I am an English 6 to 8 ( 2 to 4 for the American's amongst you) This is unusual for me, its not big I know, but it's not waif like either. I jiggle a bit. What we are and how we feel about it, its all relative, isn't it?

    So, I realised, I'm not uncomfortable in my body, no. I am ready for the ripeness of it, the roundness, the jiggle, the meeting of my thigh with the curve to sweet places. The apple of my breasts, the tender nape of neck, the lustre of my skin. Milk and honey.
    I have come into bloom almost without realising. He, the photographer had realised, she, his ex-girlfriend had realised.

    I want to burst out of my clothes on the next shoot. I want the flesh of me running over, little seeds, juice running down. Hot in the sun, warm and wet.

    Over these years my bones have boiled on a great big pot. It's made a fresh fruity soup of me, that I've a sense tastes divine.
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