You know what one of the best things about moving from a lifetime working for tiny companies in little industrial units to working for a global brand with its own office campus is?
On site catering.
That's right, for the first time in my life I have ready access to high quality gourmet food you'd pay quite a lot for in some restaurants, always there, always tasty and always cheap. For the price of a sandwich from some High Street lunchtime eateries I can have a full-on plate of top-quality nosh, and let me tell you, I take full advantage of that canteen!
I have a problem with food.
Other people deal with life's ups and downs with alcohol or fags, but me? I comfort eat. When you're my size you can pack away an astounding amount of food, so my life is a constant battle not to pack away too much. Being overweight is surprisingly easy to hide on a tall skeleton, so while most people think I'm pretty thin in fact I'm constantly skirting the upper end of the healthy BMI range.
I try to deal with it through exercise. If you can't eat less, you move more. But gyms are so deadly boring, and the half-hour brisk walk that used to be my morning commute has been reduced to a 5 minute stroll, so I'm left doing marathon walks at the weekend with my mother's dog. Bless her, she's only a little thing. I end up carrying her in this hot weather, she reaches a point of defiance at which she just sits down and refuses to move.
Depression is a funny thing. Perhaps I'm medicating it with sugar through my eating, which explains why I find diets difficult. So I've become a mostly vegetarian at work in an effort to cut the fat and gratuitous calorie count as far as I can. I have something of a taste for the roasts, fried fish, home-made hamburgers and pork belly that the chef serves to so many of my colleagues.
Fortunately I like veggie chili, stuffed aubergines and braised fennel. And our chef does a mean veggie stir fry. Eat like kings in the publishing business, we do!
As vices go it could be worse I guess. And my BMI has hovered at the same figure for years, so I'm probably in less danger than I think. But I'm acutely aware that only the high metabolism of a testosterone-crazed body is between me and obesity if I keep it up, and an oestrogen-led endocrine system could upset the apple-cart.
I'd probably be one of very few women who'd be glad for the fat to land on her thighs.
The first step in any rehabilitation is to recognise that there is a problem in the first place. Maybe it's time I started eyeing up the salad bar.