I look at that photo, and smile. There’s no doubt I was loved – my mum and dad tried for 12 years to have a baby and it just didn’t happen. They adopted me at 6 weeks old, and never had a baby been so loved…or so well fed! I’ve dipped in and out of therapy over the years to try and understand this weird relationship I have with food and there’s no doubt in my mind that some of the way I’m wired stems way back to my formative years. Feeding me was my mum’s way of showing love. If I skinned my knee, or fell out with a friend, there was a ready supply of edible treats to make me feel better. Bad times, good times, difficult times, tears…all medicated with food.

Back then I’m sure I was regarded as a bonny baby – nowadays my mum would probably be hauled in front of social workers screaming about childhood obesity and food abuse…and on balance I guess they’d have a point. Looking at the picture, the space-hopper physique isn’t a million miles away what I see right now as I look down at the rolls of fat on my arms and the dimples on my knees (although let’s not forget there are some seriously foxy knees buried under all of that). I do speak from a position of certainty though when I say nobody’s going to look at the adult space-hopper and say ‘Awww…’ in quite the same way.

In many respects, as an obese adult, the bigger you are the more invisible you become.

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