As a little girl I loved to bake with my grandmother. She made the most awesome fruit cakes,... and melt in the mouth bread rolls which we would eat straight from the oven with melted butter. I loved her so very dearly, a feeling which was beautifully requited. And in her love for me she wanted to give me every good thing, including Horse and Pony magazine, which she bought me every week from the newsagents, and an abundance of baked goods from her repertoire of farmhouse cooking. It was hardly surprising then, that I came to equate love with sitting in front of Grandma's fire, feasting on some delicious home-cooked treat whilst indulging my literary tastebuds to boot.
My love of food and the non-physical pursuits of reading and crafting (another wonderful inheritance from my grandma) meant that the 'puppy fat' of my childhood had become firmly established by the time I reached puberty. I was a 'fatty'. At school I was subject to bullying and social exclusion. I became depressed and developed a strong sense of loathing towards my body, and so it was that around this time I first induced myself to vomit after a meal.