Daily Mail journalists select and curate the products that feature on our site. If you make a purchase via links on this page we will earn commission - learn moreThe French invented cellulite. Or at least for me, my French exchange student did. One sunny evening after a day on the beach near Bordeaux, she was the first person who ever explained its true evils.‘Chou-fleur,’ she said, grabbing hold of the backs of her cuisses – thighs – and squeezing the flesh tightly, shoving her leg under my nose. ‘Look at all this cauliflower! The cellulite! C’est terrible!’I was all of 12 years old and had barely discovered what deodorant was, or quite what to do with my turquoise eyeliner from Miss Selfridge. Whereas Véronique, well, she was already buffing and brushing and massaging her thighs with a special unctuous ‘cuisses cream’ for the vast areas of dimpled fat that she patently didn’t have. But she was undeterred, vigorously slathering on the Vichy formula, while her younger sister, Brigitte, and I looked on in awe.And so, the seeds were sown – in order to be glamorous and chic and, most importantly, a little bit French, along with a beret, a Breton jumper, a Gauloises cigarette and a pastis, one must purchase special creams for one’s thighs.Quite what they were supposed to do was anyone’s guess. How they were meant to combat those stubborn lumps of uneven fat that build up under the skin due to a poor diet, sedentary lifestyle, hormones, weight gain or genetic factors, was not something I even questioned. All I knew was that cellulite was the devil’s work and it had to be got rid of.In my 20s, when I had time and a small amount of money, I would work the cottage-cheese areas for hours with a dry body brush, or one of those abrasive hand mitts until the skin was a virulent scarlet, and then slap on oil, gel or indeed a Clarins cream, while inspecting my backside in the mirror. My thighs before and after Cellution, a three-stage process that combines four technologies to achieve cellulite reductionThere were various secret ingredients in these oils and creams – peppermint, vine skins, red-algae extract – that were supposed to firm the skin, reactivate the collagen and help disperse the globules under the skin.But I was very much facing an uphill struggle as a fan of the coffee and the wine and the cigarettes and the lounging around – and as someone very slack with drinking the water. This was never going to be an easy war to win even if my legs were not that large in those days and my backside was as flat as two sides of A4 paper. Still the lumps and bumps were there, winking at me in the mirror from underneath my underwear.Orange peel, as it was called in those days, proved stubborn. And not helped by the new fashion for wearing a thong. To be honest, that was a very short-lived mistake, one sneak peek of my baggy bum in the mirror in Topshop as I was trying to squeeze into a pair of jeans was enough to make me ditch mine ASAP. I was forever destined to sport the Bridget Jones giant knicker.Then, in my 30s, I had two children and lost control of, and indeed interest in, the level of orange peel on my legs. Time was limited, as were funds, and as long asI could get a brush through my hair, clean my teeth and make it to the occasional workout class to try to discover where the hell my pelvic floor was, surely that was enough? Ignorance was bliss and quite a lot cheaper.But then, just last year, someone took a photograph of me in my bathing suit hugging one of said children. Bright sunshine, back view, in a one-piece made with industrial-strength elastane. And there were my thighs catching the light, shimmering under the rays, shown in all their glorious, deep-pitted detail. It wasn’t just a touch of orange peel; they looked like two well-used carrier-bags full of walnuts.It was a shock, to say the least; you don’t see the back of yourself very often, unless you’re a gymnast or an excellent contortionist. I had no idea it looked that bad.So I went back to the dry brushing and I had a go at the drinking less coffee, fewer glasses of wine and much more water. Walking is apparently good. I even went to a health farm in Turkey where I drank nothing but juice for a week and had some hammams and massages (I hate massages) in a concerted attempt to get rid of the stuff. I shelled out for creams and oils, standing with my buttocks towards the mirror, rubbing the backs of my legs up and down, hoping to make a difference. All to no avail.And then I saw a photograph of TV’s Karren Brady with some very nice-looking arms, all smooth and sleek and most definitely devoid of bingo wings. She had apparently undergone some sort of tightening treatment, which had transformed the skin around her upper arms. I asked around and found out that there was a similar cutting-edge treatment for the thighs. It’s called Cellution (a solution for cellulite!) and involves a bed and a machine and some painless lying down for about 30 minutes, which is just the sort of beauty tweakment that I enjoy. So I immediately booked myself in at Harley Street’s Dr Haus Dermatology clinic.Cellution is a three-stage process that combines four technologies to achieve cellulite reduction, skin tightening, lymphatic drainage and slimming of the silhouette. The first two stages involve oil and a big warm massage paddle that heats up the tissue below the skin’s surface, melting the fat and boosting collagen and elastin to promote renewal. The last stage involves zapping the backs of the legs with a low-level current that helps disperse the fat. There is zero downtime. And a package of six treatments (costing £1,950) is recommended. The results are expected some three months later when the skin is at its most perky and smooth.And that’s it! Cellulite is diminished forever – or for a while at least.Was it a silver bullet? Sadly, I am not sure any beauty treatment is ever perfect, particularly if you, like me, are very much the other side of 50. But there was a big difference. My skin felt smooth, firmer and tighter and indeed significantly younger.It might not appear obvious in the photographs, but the backs of my legs aren’t as lumpy and bumpy and they look a lot less like a bunch of elderly, biodegrading grapes. And, as I posed for the photographer and appreciated the subtle difference between the ‘before’ and the ‘after’ pics, I asked the practitioner a question: ‘So… where is the machine and all the technology from?’‘Oh.’ She looked over the camera. ‘It’s French. Designed and manufactured in France.’Of course it is.SHOP: From traditional tweezers to at-home lasers, we've spent months plucking, shaving and waxing our hair to find the best tools, here's our guideREAD MORE: I struggle to sleep and I'm usually tossing and turning all night... but this is the £25 cream that put me to bed before 10pm