I HAVE BEEN fascinated by fat ever since I was a pre-teen anorexic. My fascination may have preceded the onset of anorexia, although I don’t remember being particularly worried about getting fat. My father, apparently, was a rare male anorexic when he was young and he would often point out what a strapping girl I was. But to place the weight of my neuroses on him is silly – although it cost me thousands of dollars in therapy before I came to that conclusion.

A late developer, I was interested in girls’ bodies that seemingly changed over night. In the locker rooms at schools, they would parade their new teenage bodies and talk about pads, and boys, and going to the local hops. For some reason the favoured scent was Fabergé Brut. It came in a green container and really stank. I’d scurry like a mouse into the showers when no one was looking, ashamed of my lack of womanly charms.