Fat girl slim - Telegraph All my teenage photos reveal me as a beanpole, so I guess I was just one of those lucky youngsters blessed with a high metabolic rate. Brought up with such indulgent eating habits, I was happy to continue in the same vein when I left for university. Cycling six miles a day helped to disguise my secret. Student problems were swept away by the waves of food, glorious food. Family-size bars of chocolate didn't even make me feel nauseous, and they did go well with a few packets of crisps washed down with lovely fizzy drinks. Believe it or not, I was still a walking skeleton as I strolled through the next decade. I had become aware of the little devil in my life but I thought I could live with him and just keep him well fed. A few years into my marriage, gorgeous babies appeared on the scene. Not-so-gorgeous layers of fat suddenly made my stomach, thighs and bottom their home. Gradually the dress sizes crept up. Baggy tops would hide the bulges, and if I felt down a cup of coffee and several chocolate bars would soon cheer me up. I hit my fifties and the scales hovered near the 13st mark, obviously too much for my 5ft 4in frame. The words on Mum's apron would haunt me and I would promise myself that once the present stock of treats was gone I would start to "be good." Media health warnings always made scary reading but nothing that couldn't be eased into oblivion by something yummy. But suddenly a physical disorder became a reality - I developed arthritis in the knees. Fellow arthritis sufferers will know that the pain is intolerable, and no amount of food would make it go away. The monster of comfort eating had become insatiable. For the first time in my life medical voices ripped through my denial. You need to lose weight. As if cataracts had been surgically removed from my eyes, I actually understood that what I needed was a lifestyle change, not a diet. Of course, I had read about such things before but suddenly it was now my story and not somebody else's. I had massive incentives - I did not want to be in a wheelchair. The pain when climbing stairs was so intense, and my legs were constantly like lead weights. Finally I grew up overnight, aged 51. "Get a grip," I told myself every time a problem arose. Food will not help solve it. My two teenage daughters were my heroines as they, too, wanted to escape their heritage of poor eating habits. They readily agreed to accompany me on regular walks and explore healthy eating options. We soon discovered the dietary benefits of blueberries and green tea. The pounds began to slip away, as did the desire for sweet things. It was never a case of "when this diet is over," as it was just our permanent new lifestyle. The general feeling of wellbeing and the new-found energy is so much kinder than my old friend, food, and my confidence is based on knowing that I am in control. The arthritis continues to lurk and I still walk with a limp on bad days. But the old adage that every cloud has a silver lining has been proven true for me. In an ironical way my arthritis has become my saviour. My demons have been exorcised.