I’m a great admirer of my friend the delectable Camilla Long, a journalist on the Sunday Times who is endowed with a superfluity of talent that enchants as well as dares to delve into women’s intimate parts when the subject warrants it.
She’s also renowned for calling a spade a spade, and has a biting sense of humour which is as raw and polished as a good steak tartare.
Her journalistic output is phenomenal. She interviews people without the rancour of Lynn Barber, but can be devastatingly intrusive with a drollery that comes naturally.
As well as being a film critic, which must take a lot of her time viewing, her regular column in Style Magazine is outrageously funny and rather addictive. I read it compulsively every Sunday and consider it a treat for one who’s not easily shocked but appreciates a woman such as Camilla who has the balls to out-do and out-strip any man I know.
Yet her femininity remains intact. She sizzles and her sheer presence can illuminate even in the darkness of a winter’s night.
Last week, she wrote that she recently went on holiday where she had the opportunity to show off her fabulous ‘beached body’.
‘Yes, “beached”. I would love to say I feel great in a bikini but the truth is I will feel more comfortable wearing nothing. Wearing a bikini is a constant battle to remain entirely motionless in order to minimise the amount of boob and bum meat on immediate display.
‘Perhaps it’s the quality of the bikinis I wear, or the way in which I romp into the surf, but the moment I move or run into the sea it is the law that the whole thing instantly comes off.’
Her description is rather tantalising and leads one to fantasise – or at least I do.
All I can say: take your bikini off, Camilla. It would give your legions of fans a revelation of your inner enclave, which would be as enticing as one could reasonably imagine. I consider such impunity as refreshing in the circumstances.