F eeling the familiar churning in my tummy, I scraped back my chair.
I’d already sussed out where the toilet was in the restaurant.
‘Back in a minute,’ I said to my friends.
I walked quickly to the toilet… and was sick.
In July 2015, I’d paid £5,000 to have a gastric band fitted.
Before the op, I’d been 18st.
I’d turned to comfort eating as a long-term relationship soured.
And my job as a health support worker on shift patterns had led