Then I went through a phase of being a fussy eater. On the paediatrician’s instructions, my parents encouraged me to broaden my repertoire of foods. Unfortunately, their efforts were unravelled by some other diet-obsessed relatives. You know the ones I mean: the type who will bang on about their latest Slimming World milestone during an otherwise enjoyable family meal. You grit your teeth, listen and smile when all you want to do is shove a hot potato in their mouth to stop them talking. Instead of praising my cooking efforts (I’d often help Mum out in the kitchen), they’d heave an exaggerated sigh and say: "Well there goes the diet" or "I dread to think how many calories are in this". And I would put down my fork, suddenly not so hungry. Then they’d comment on my portion size which is particularly damaging when you can’t actually see the plate. "Blimey, you’ve done well, that was enormous!" they’d exclaim. In that moment, I would go from feeling satisfied to physically sick. Deep down, I know they loved me. But their words messed with my head.