I’ve had a quote back from the plastic surgeon, which while eyewatering, didn’t completely put me off so I think that I’ll spend the next few months working towards the goal of shifting a few more pounds and then maintaining that for a while.

I think the first thing that I’ll have done is the tummy tuck. He’s going to lift it all the way around, so I’ll have an arse lift too, because to say I have a crinkly bottom doesn’t even cover it. It’s like an antique concertina flapping around back there.

He’s confident he can give me a good shape, I don’t want to be straight up and down like some people are when they have this kind of surgery. I also don’t want to have an arse you can crack a walnut inbetween either (this joke went down much better with the assistant, in case you were wondering). I want to look normal. Comfortingly Dr S. seemed happy when I said this. I’m sure he sees a lot of patients who are on a never ending quest for youth and beauty, so perhaps this was a refreshing thing to hear. Maybe I’m overconfident in how normal this all seems to me at the moment. Whether I’ll feel like that when my body’s been cut open is another thing entirely.

This surgery is not without it’s worries though. Am I really going to let someone cut around the entire circumference of my body, hack a chunk of skin out and then sew me back together? It sounds rather insane when you put it in in terms like that. I’m not concerned with scarring. At all. I want to look good in clothes. If I’ve got to 40 without the need to wear a bikini, I’m fairly confident that it’s not going to bother me if I wear one or not after the surgery.

There will of course be more surgeries and a fair amount of liposuction. I often wonder if I’ll love what I see in the mirror then, when it’s all “done”. But then also you wonder where this ends? Is this a slippery slope? Am I going to be the new Jocelyn Wildenstein? I do love a cat, after all.

I’m quietly hopeful. And that’s such a marvellous feeling.