And eventually, a few weeks into my fresh new decade, I got naked. I could manoeuvre a bra into place beneath a dress, like that scene from Flashdance on rewind. I had been momentarily naked in not-quite-public, and lived. Some of the cliches about ageing are true. But I liked that, knowing I was part of a long lineage of people to discover — and subsequently blether on about — how good it feels to start the day suspended in cool water, limbs moving in soothing repetition. I was still faintly haunted by memories of the communal changing rooms in Miss Selfridge circa
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