For almost my entire adult life I dreaded the balmy months of June through to September. My hatred of summer first began in school when I would fantasise about enrolling myself in an American-style ‘fat camp’, returning to my classmates in September for a Miley Stewart/Hannah Montana transformation.
I distinctly remember a trip to LA when I’d failed in my mission to slim down to the impossible target weight I’d set myself in my Weight Watchers journal.
Consoling myself with an overpriced Mars Duo from WHSmiths at Gatwick Airport, I felt like my holiday was ruined before I’d even left the terminal.
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