My children were hurtling towards me, their arms outstretched, their blonde curly hair flying.
'Maammmmaaaaaa,' the pair of them screeched, almost knocking me over as they slammed into me.
I laughed, happy they'd waited up as I was working late.
'I couldn't go to bed without giving you a cuddle,' my eight-year-old son said, trying to put his arms around me. They only got as far as round my sides.
I breathed in, while he grappled with my jelly belly. It was no use. Try as he might, his arms just weren't long enough to reach around my rapidly expanding girth. 'Your tummy's fat,' he said, disappointed. 'You'll have to cuddle me instead.'
So I sat down, trying to ignore my fat stomach cascading down. 'Goody,' my two-year-old girl screamed, jumping into my lap. 'A bouncy castle.'
My entire body wobbled as she leapt up and down, giggling. 'Stop that,' my husband chastised her. 'You'll make Mamma sick.'
But it wasn't the sight of my little girl bouncing on my blubber that did that though – it was the sight of my reflection in the bathroom mirror that night.
My once-attractive curves were now buried under layers of spare tyres. My stomach alone could keep an entire fleet of Ice Truckers' super-lorries going for three years without a single puncture.
'I have to lose weight,' I wailed. My wardrobe was crammed with never-worn clothes I'd bought to 'diet into.'
I had every size in there from a size 12 to a 16 – and now they were more than a snug fit.
'No more pasta, pizza or red wine for me,' I vowed. My husband pulled a face. He's a chef, and can whip up a three-course meal easier than I can cremate beans on toast.
'Don't be silly, just go to the gym,' he said. But that would mean showing off my fat in all its Lycra-clad glory. I'd have to go down at least two dress sizes before I could venture anywhere near a cross-trainer.
So I told everyone I was off the booze, fizzy drinks chocolate, crisps, rich creamy sauces, roast potatoes and - my favourite – calorie-laden mozzarella cheese.
'Don't tempt me,' I told the children, ordering them to eat their sweets in their bedrooms or when I was out.
I dug out my trainers – with the label still in tact – and picked up a form to join the gym.
'I'll be a new woman soon,' I announced, reading the lists of classes available. Combat aerobics, kick boxing, Boot camp – things had changed during the decades since I'd done a mum's bums and tums class.
Getting fit sounded like anger management nowadays. Maybe I could cut the rage along with a double chin.
So on Monday morning I was raring to go. My gym kit was ready – all I had to do was drop the kids off at school.
All the way there I silently chanted as I drove. 'I will not eat junk,' I told myself. 'I will get thin.' By the time I'd finished the school run I couldn't think of anything other than food.
'Be good,' I thought as I neared our house. Then I swerved off the road right into a drive-thru. 'An egg McMuffin, three hash browns and an orange juice,' please I told the tannoy. 'And make it quick. I'm on a McDiet.'
