My ideal man is tall, dark and handsome, with hands that work a kind of magic. I’ve had to fight off South American singers, Kuwaiti princesses and Russian models to spend time with him.
He hasn’t promised me diamonds or life-long commitment but something better: perfect knees.
Standing half-naked in Dr Georges Roman’s consulting rooms on the corner of London’s Harley Street, my flaws are exposed for us both to see. ‘You have old knees,’ he says, in a charming French accent that makes it seem less of an insult.
______________________________________________________________________________________________________
