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My sister hated me exercising in the lounge to my Michael Jackson tape – she was a nurse on night shifts – so I hired a studio on the high street. Even today, the closing theme tune of EastEnders brings back memories of running down the studio stairs, past the telly in reception, worried I’d miss my train. Classes after work – I was knitting patterns editor – meant I never got home until gone 11pm. At my sister-in-law’s funeral in Edinburgh, her friends said, ‘You used to run round Leith Links whenever you came to stay.’ My mum was always disappointed that, home for the holidays, I would miss get-togethers because I was compelled to run up and down hills instead.Īged 25, I moved out of London to a cottage in Saffron Walden, Essex, with my sister. I became so addicted to exercise it became the only thing people remember about me. I duly started going every week, despite the fact the changing rooms were infested with cockroaches. Aged 11, it was a sister saying, ‘Do you know how many calories are in toast and marmalade?’Īged 19, which is when I moved to London, Pamela Dillman, a beautiful American student at Rada, looked me up and down and said, ‘You should do pilates. When you’re young, with zero self-esteem, a single sentence can derail you. She has brought hairpieces, as I imagine she found out I’ve lost so much of my hair. ‘No, it’s not! It’s a £6,000 transplant.’ Honestly. ‘You have a good neck,’ she says, and in the next breath, ‘Is that an eyebrow tattoo?’ The make-up artist arrives for the shoot. No one told me I was beautiful or talented or even a nice person. So I continued to punish it when I should have relished being young. I was prescribed steroids, which distorted my body.
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I was so shocked I looked so thin that I booked to see my GP. A stick figure in pink tights, pink ballet slippers, black leotard. Unfortunately, my rule of never looking in the mirror was broken one day when I caught a glimpse by accident. I hated myself so profoundly, I even told my teacher a different name: Libby. It gave me the illusion I was better than I am. When I used to come here, three, four times a week for most of the 80s (pilates on the top floor, body conditioning on the ground, leg warmers on both legs and arms), I had a rule never to look up at my own reflection. That strange, evocative smell of old sweat. There is plinky-plonky music from the class next door. I’m here for a shoot for work, but as I’m early (I once read that legendary Daily Mail columnist Lynda Lee-Potter always turned up an hour before an interview), I have time to reminisce. It’s Friday morning, and I’m in Studio 12 at Pineapple Dance Studios, Covent Garden. 'I’ve never allowed a man to see me naked.