I’ve always loved magazines. Not just the glamorous ones, either. Woman’s Day, New Idea, sign me up. I was a six-year-old with a questionable pageboy haircut in head-to-toe corduroy who knew the names of Demi Moore’s kids, first and middle. I don’t remember a whole lot more about those magazines, but weirdly, one agony aunt question sticks. The reader had had a “tummy tuck” (it was 1991) and didn’t want any of her friends to know. What to do?

That question seems hopelessly quaint now. Who cares? But there was a time when plastic surgery – any kind of modification to one’s body – was meant to be discreet. The idea was to have work done that was seamless and “normal-looking”, so nobody would suspect a thing. Because the whole thing was seedy, a bit shameful even.