Size Six

A new friend V. – we met a couple of months ago – was clearing her cupboards and insisted I come over to try on some of the (designer) clothes she said she’d rather I have than put at the whim of eBay.

I was flattered that she’d think we were remotely the same size, but was positive we weren’t. “[V's friend] H. and I were talking at breakfast about whether my things would suit you,” she said. “We think the only problem might be the chest.” (Mine is, erm, ample – I can never buy button-down shirts.)

I covertly checked the tags of the dresses and coats: UK 10, US 6. Um, no freakin’ way. I protested that I was a UK 12 (US 8) on a good day. She insisted I try.

Of the five items, I could get into four of them: two dresses and two coats, all from different designers. All size UK 10/US 6. Insane. The Wakefield twins were size six, for heaven's sake.

“One dress fitting is a fluke,” said my friend, who actually knows very little about my weight-loss history. “Two means it’s your size.”

I took two dresses and have tried them on twice since then. Just to, you know, check that they still fit. I examined the seams for telltale tags that might suggest they were mislabelled. I know, I know – I’m crazy.

And yet: Two and a half pounds to go before I’m even classed as “normal” (my goal) as opposed to “overweight.”