She reclines, half-silhouetted br against the bright North London morning. br Sheets, once crisp, now crumpled, br lie in submission at her feet br as the light plays peekaboo br over shoulder, arm and thigh. br She faces me, br offering her full, ripe breasts br as if in an invitation to br enter my own drawing. br br But no. I remind myself br that to oversee a figure properly br I should be three times its length away, br and... say... five foot eight times three br is seventeen feet. br I must be seventeen feet br away from this woman, br bought for an hour or two br like a wanton of the streets br to be the centrepiece of br this dappled mosaic, br a canvas for the light that caresses her form. br br A proper woman, at any rate, br no Pre-Raphaelite fantasy br tubercular wasted waif, br but one of curves and contours, br strength and beauty, br who knows her simmering sensuality br and is right now staring me in the eye, br as if she were in control of this sitting, br from a distance of seventeen feet. br br Look at the light, look at the light, br then head down br and focus on the sketchbook; br remain three times her length away br for just a little longer.