Marianne Power - Help Me: My Perfectly Disastrous Journey through the World of Self-Help

To G my person

Mum: About this book...

Me: Yes.

Mum: Please tell me you dont use the word journey in it.

Me: I dont.

Mum: Good.

Me: I prefer the term spiritual path.

Mum: Oh, Marianne...

The stained office chair is covered with grey, scratchy material. I try not to think about the origin of the dark splodge as I let my fluffy dressing gown drop to the floor and sit down. Naked.

The cool air of the draughty hall hits my skin. My heart pounds.

I am naked. In front of people. Naked. Under a spotlight. Naked.

My thoughts race. What if someone I know walks in? Someone I work with? Or an old teacher?

Just find a position you are comfortable in and relax, says the teacher from the back of the room. I promise you nobody will be thinking of your nudity theyll be too focused on their art.

Patronizing sod, easy for you to say in your jeans and jacket. You are one hundred per cent more dressed than me right now.

I cross my legs and put my arms in my lap, just to cover something. I look down at my mozzarella tummy and the blonde hairs on my white legs glowing under the bright lights. The noise of pencil scratching paper is the only thing to distract me from the voice inside my head. A voice thats yelling: What the hell are you doing here? Why arent you at home watching telly like a normal person? And why didnt you shave your legs? Surely thats the first thing you do when you are about to get naked in public? Some basic bloody hair removal?

Out of the corner of my eye I see movement. Someone has come in late. Its a man. He is tall. Dark curly hair. I raise my head slightly. Hes wearing a navy sweater. God, Im a sucker for a nice sweater... The reality dawns: a hot man has walked in while I am sitting with no clothes on in a village hall.

This is the stuff of nightmares.

I stare at a ball of fluff on the floor like my life depends on it.

I take a deep breath and worry that breathing makes me look fat. Fatter.

Stop it, Marianne. Think of something else... like what you will have for dinner when you get home. Maybe a chicken stir-fry? Or cheese on toast?

OK, Marianne, why dont we try a standing pose? Perhaps with your back to the room? And your arms up?

My legs shake as I turn.

I wonder how these budding Michelangelos are going to capture my cellulite. Is this something they get taught how to do? A bit like learning perspective and how to recreate the sky? I wonder what Mr Sweater is going to think of my bum? Hell hate it, Im sure. I bet all his girlfriends are the perfect size and have bums like peaches...

I think about cheese on toast. I wonder what kind of bread we have left.

My arms burn with the effort of keeping them up. Two drops of sweat trickle down the side of my body. Then the teachers talking again.

Feel free to move to a better position, he tells his students. Move closer to the model. Find a good angle to work from.

Chairs scrape on the wooden floor. Mr Sweater is now sitting three feet away from me. Hes so close, I can smell his aftershave. It smells clean and sea-like.

I bet he thinks youre a weirdo for being naked in public on a Sunday night. I bet he thinks your hairy thighs are huge and ugly. I bet... Stop it, Marianne!

I go back to the fluff. I wonder why the floors of halls are always so dusty and whether I can get away without doing any laundry when I get home. Then the teacher is telling me to get dressed.

The minute he does, I feel even more naked. Hed told me to bring a robe conjuring up images of Parisian garrets and models in silk gowns but all I had was a fleecy dressing gown. I put it on, take a breath and move over to Mr Sweater.

Im sorry, Im a bit out of practice, he mumbles, looking at his easel. I didnt get your nose right, and the forehead is a bit big...

I look at the outline of my naked form in chaotic charcoal strokes. Sod the forehead! I want to shout. Youve made my arse the size of Australia!

I go into the toilets and try to dress quickly on the icy, chipped tiles. I struggle to get my tights back on in the confines of the cubicle. I sit on the loo.

I feel more embarrassed than empowered.

Why am I doing any of this...?