![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpG0ymwKPJ72uJkWpG9cq9h7Dy9UBt1sqPFHdD7VQR0E9tWzDsmTMQ7lRNoq8DdD0HVvAfdH8d8IVsd4anHy0swLxYp05s0SdV6bcctmYrOFF4moU8QKfz8M3q1RONgZ6h34ga42zh-8c/s400/tricia.jpg)
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_PqKJe8Ouu4KeDyWpe5AHPpWLUKehFkghCK1weD-OOHUtk5Z2bzpl2rU6nksdw681EDyRBgakB25o74c1s3jqbfhS3G2PnQumISUCzzkXfE6C8lz75nUc52hIdF4ub3160mzGcrwCbEw/s400/tricia2.jpg)
Bend, smile, pout… for someone who, by virtue of her job as a photographic assistant, is supposedly more at home behind the lens, Tricia Passam seems remarkably confident flouncing around in front of it. FHM smells an extra-curricular rat. “You’ve got me,” smiles Tricia. “My boyfriend has shot me recently. You should thank him. Without him I wouldn’t have had the confidence to enter, let alone pose.” Grudging thanks, indeed.
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