Art.

It is of course typical that as soon as I remove myself from London, Fashion, the desperate scrabble for work. That I am flooded with calls for job offers, in particular a L'oreal job.
Then again, fate and all that.

I mean, the school of stylists I come from often get irritated by unnecessary extras such as limbs, hair, fingers and models vital organs, that you know, 'Make things stick out more than they need to, which is such a dreadful shame when they went to all that effort to have zero body fat'

The stylist that offered me the job is famous for, 'If in doubt, make the model wear absolutely everything on the rail over a triple X extra high leg leotard that has impressive camel toe effect for shock factor'

It would have ended in tears I'm sure.

Any how. I am enjoying my seclution the the French mountains pretending to be an artist again.
As far as I can see (or remember from Art College) this entails, seeing no one, talking to no one, drinking many bottles of wine with no one and eating cheese (this last part is something I added myself. It is an excellent way to justify new layer of back fat I have gained since my arrival......
I put it there in the name of Art)

The fact that all I have managed to paint is some mangled pink flowers which I then scribbled, 'I fucking hate painting flowers' all over, is perhaps not the most fruitful of results nor does it reflect the inspired visions I had when I came here with the intention to paint.

However, it has provided much time to philosophise.

I mean. I really do need to work out how to rid myself of the back fat.

I am still traumatised from a job I did in Montenegro last summer.

It was scorching hot and we were shoot on a beach, with sparkly blue water etc. Swimming was unavoidable.
Even though it would have to be with two swimwear models.

As I had not packed with the idea of having any time off let alone to swim. I had not brought my own swim wear.

Sample size bikini it was then.

On me. The result was soft porn.
Even the sweet (gay) producer that helped manoeuvre me in to the bloody thing shuddered at the result.

At the time, I was certain it was worth it.

Later at dinner I found out, that, at the time; my boss had likened me to a, 'St Bernard Dog'.

Needless to say, this was shortly followed by the diet coke diet and the back fat (amongst other fats) melted away.

Healthy. No.
Smug in a bikini one month later.
Indeed.
I am planning a similar diet strategy, but shall replace diet coke with Rose wine....