London Fashion Week is coming to a close and the Size Zero debate reared its lollipop head with comforting predictability, as the models tottered out with arms that looked like they'd been drawn by a five-year-old and lips that were made for pouting and not eating.
But interestingly this year, there appeared to be a fleshy backlash against weighing less than an atom and twirling in front of Anna Wintour's enduring bob, thanks to a picture of stunning Mad Men star Christina Hendricks flashing her Devil's Crumpets beside a bijou Sarah Jessica Parker, who looked like a beautiful, well-groomed thoroughbred.
Little did they know as they stood together with rictus grins before the flashing bulbs, that this image would become the focal point of Blighty women's body-image issues, as we braced ourselves for a week of designer-clad, xylophone ribs.
Papers, magazines and websites have been bulging with Rennie-sucking harridans, attacking scrawny SJP and worshipping at the altar of Hendricks's gargantuan orbs and well-packed trunk of sugary jelly.
While I agree that she looked edible, we have now gone to such extremes that women are heralding stars like Beth Ditto and Rosie O'Donnell as "beautiful" and urging us to feed them affection and Curly Wurlies, because there's more of them to love.
These women are lovely, but desperately unhealthy spheres and should not be put on top of creaking pedestals; just as Skeletor's bastard offspring should not be plastered over fashion magazines, posters and advertising campaigns.
I experienced this curious and unsavoury battle between little and large firsthand, at a catwalk show at the Natural History Museum many moons ago. Circular tables studded the catwalk and I sat down with a rumbling tum, looking forward to the free boozage and three-course nosh.
However, as the starters arrived, the first models wafted down the runway with cold, dead eyes and antelope legs. I looked at their feathery frames and then back at my plate - which had much more meat on it - and then put my fork down.
Amazingly, as I looked around the room, most other females were doing the same thing.
Then the Gloucester-spotted pork belly arrived with crunchy, golden spuds. I'd barely got my gnasher around a Prince Edward when the next lot of models creaked down the catwalk, this time even smaller than the last. It was like Alice in Wonderland, but without the cake and Eat Me signs.
Again, everybody with an ovary played with their food uncomfortably. And then something truly amazing happened - they brought plus-sized models out at the same time as dessert, and I have never seen so many women shamelessly inhaling petit-fours and Creme Brulee; myself included.
Afterwards, I went backstage and got chatting to a particularly ghastly male designer with ridiculous facial topiary and a moral compass as shaky as his hands.
We were looking at an emaciated woman-child fingering a bagel on a table of uneaten food.
"For the love of god, eat the bagel." I murmured.
"No! She's a sacrificial virgin."
Noting my perplexed look and using ten vowels where one would do, he continued: "You're clearly not in fashion, are you? A sacrificial virgin is a very young, pretty girl. A lot of them we get in the school holidays.
"We promise them the world and then after a year, they're gone. You see, I don't want all these big faces like Kate Moss and Agyness Deyn. I want anonymous, thin, young and attractive girls and after a year or so, she's gone."
I really wished that poor girl had eaten that bagel, or at least thrown a bun at his head.
That night was a real watershed. And it made me realise that - especially in the preening, pose-striking media industry - women are constantly having this public and private battle between little and large.
We complain about how shocking the fat-free models and celebrities are, while we bounce around assorted yo-yo diets and flick through magazines full of bones.
At the same time, we loudly comment on how "healthy and voluptuous" Nigella Lawson's Rubenesque curves are, angrily prodding our partners to agree and secretly knowing that we'd cry hot, salty tears if pictures of ourselves oozing out of a "burkini" emerged.
We are walking contradictions and LFW highlights this, every year. And we're not putting ourselves through this for men, because they don't generally find giant women or boyish skeletons attractive.
A friend of mine who edited various men's magazines once told me that they had to airbrush fat ONTO the female models, to make them more attractive. And a glamour model friend was told by her agency to put on weight for the same reason.
We represent iconic surf brand Hot Tuna, who champion the happy, healthy medium. When we were searching for models for their Autumn/Winter and Spring/Summer shoots, we pored over models to find women who looked healthy, not emaciated or obese. This was very important to the brand.
And it was cheering to find in the http://www.hot-tuna.com poll of most stylish LFW celebrities, available here http://www.express.co.uk/posts/view/272548/Gaga-tops-stars-fashion-poll, that normal, healthy women reigned high, including Kelly Brook, Kim Kardashian and Beyonce.
Kate Moss famously said that "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Although I'm sure Beth Ditto would beg to differ. Two fingers and regurgitated food aren't terribly tasty, either.
And Moss has clearly never felt the reassuring weight of a full and sexy Hendricks-breasticle in her hand or eaten a buttery pie.
What I'm saying is that we come in strange and wonderful shapes and sizes and should be accepting of this. And as soon as ribs become either long-lost friends or pushy guests, we should stop championing them.
The sooner other fashion brands follow Hot Tuna's lead by promoting normal bodies, the happier and healthier we'll all be.
It leaves a better taste in the mouth and is much easier to stomach.