Pouring gravy over a mountain of roast tatties, stuffing, pigs in blankets and thick slices of turkey, my mouth watered.
Digging straight in, I ate every morsel and washed down my Christmas feast with some fizzy orange pop.
‘That was delicious,’ I grinned to my hubby, Michael, then 33, my stomach bulging, the waistband of my jeans snug. ‘Anyone for pud?’
It was 25 December 2011, and if you couldn't overindulge at Christmas, when could you?
Trouble was, it wasn't just the festive season that had me overdoing the grub.
I'd been constantly ravenous lately.
After suffering nausea and chest pains earlier in the year, I'd been diagnosed with
