Now that the sun has decided to shine I can’t stop obsessing over the phrase “bikini bod”. Something which sounds so perfect, so simple, yet in reality is so hard to achieve. Last term I crashed the gym big time, lost a few pounds, toned up the abs and gave the running machine a work out. Now, a month or so later, I’ve fallen head-first into a cycle of pre-dinner nibbles and post-dinner chocolate. Situated around endless bowls of strawberries lobotomised by endless lashings of double cream and generous sprinklings of sugar. It all goes downhill when you start noticing the weight gaining on your hips; when you have a morbid fascination with poking and squeezing the new rolls of fat forming around your bones. But that cookie just tastes too good.
There’s nothing more iconic than fat Brits by the seaside, burning their pasty white limbs under the summer sun as they smear their face with ice-cream instead of sun-cream. They lie there, like rows of fettered albino sea-lions, just waiting for their moment of primal glory. Teenage girls flaunt their boyish figures in string bikinis with nothing but three triangles to cover the necessary districts of their pre-pubescent outlines. Husbands turn googly eyed as the latest addition to the beach – a topless Bermudan – radiates a talent for beach volleyball. Bodies of all shapes and sizes combine en masse to lure at one another. Lollipops were never licked so seductively. Searching eyes are hidden behind secretive shades.
Problem is, I’m in Spain approximately 48 hours from now and I’m no way near bikini-proud. The only exercise I seem to be getting recently is late-night mosquito catching. I really should remember to close the curtains when the lights are on. So fundamentally my lack of exercise, my freckly skin and my western diet have all contributed to my rather average bikin bod - but I'm just going to blame my genes because it's easier that way.
Watch this space.