When I became wheelchair-bound at the end of 2024, the biggest change I had to deal with was not being able to walk any more on my lovely long legs. But, as I surveyed my poor ruined body in the cold light of 2025, I was dismayed to see that there were a multitude of minor indignities which had vandalised my youthful looks since my spine went under the knife. 

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My lovely, glossy, dyed dark hair was now thin and greying. My teeth were mostly missing. My bingo wings could have flown me to the Moon. My lovely legs were like an old man’s. My bum had disappeared. My lovely vulva was vandalised with an unspeakably common plastic catheter. My stomach was crenellated from rapid weight loss. But the biggest shock was that my splendid rack – which I had been in proud possession of since the age of 14 – had shrivelled away to next to nothing. They were still perky for a pensioner – but they were small! Where’s the rest of me?  

The last time I had small breasts, Harold Wilson was Prime Minister. I can’t help thinking how much my rack was an essential part of my persona when I was carving out my career: big tits and a rinky-dink working-class West Country voice contrasted almost comically with the forcefulness of my opinions. If I’d been flat-chested and spoken with an RP accent, I’d have had to try a damn sight harder to stand out; on the other hand, I’d have been taken more seriously.  

But standing out was the better deal – and stand out I did. Once, I was walking along Upper Street in Islington with my second husband in a very tight T-shirt and a man literally fell off his bicycle staring at my rack. Nothing bothered my boobs; cocaine didn’t touch them or breastfeeding or Mounjaro. I didn’t wear a........

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