Shoving the pie, hot cross bun and crisps into my bag, I quickly paid for my petrol and hurried back out to the car. My lunch yet again was food hastily bought from a garage as I drove between my calls in my work as a carer. Of course I could have opted for a healthier salad, but at 19st and 5ft 7in, I had been a comfort eater for decades and it was hard to change.
I reasoned that as I was always on the go and didn’t have any health problems, I must be fine. But my shift patterns didn’t help my eating habits.
That night I wolfed down a Chinese takeaway of chicken and cashew nuts and began to sort out the children’s lunch boxes for the next day – six of them.
During my first marriage, I’d had my daughter Georgia in January 1995 and another girl, Sophie, in July 1996.
But I’d divorced when Sophie was two and had married Michael, then 31, in December 1998. Now I was raising his four children as well as my two and working full-time. As much as I loved my family, life was busy, I didn’t have time to think about dieting. And as the years went by, my weight started creeping up.
Then in August 2012, my mum’s 70th was coming up and she was having a party in a local village hall. Wanting to look nice, I struggled into a blue smock dress, in a size 22-24. I knew it was too tight and I felt so uncomfortable.
‘Come on,’ said a relative, pushing me into a group to have my picture taken.
Usually I avoided photos but I couldn’t duck out of the picture this time, not on such a special day.
‘Look,’ said Mum later, showing me the photo. Outwardly I smiled. But inside, I was repulsed.
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