Wendyl Nissen: Strength in numbers

At about this time every year I go searching for fat role models. Women who are fat, successful, well-liked and beautiful. The reason I do this is because I can't be bothered losing weight after a winter of fireside wine sessions and comfort food consisting of nothing but massive amounts of protein and carbs.

To lose weight would require elements of self-discipline, vanity and, most importantly, the necessity to stop drinking. If I could do those three things I would not be finding it necessary to write this column. I would be a size 10 slip of a thing who people would refer to as "long and lanky" rather than "biggish".

Instead, I tell myself that it's okay to be the way I am. I turn into a non-conformist disputing the need to be one size, to force myself into the conventions of fashion and the acceptable size 12. I become feminist about fat, demanding my right to be whoever I want to be, however that is. All these conversations go on in my head on a continual loop until I happen to catch a glimpse of myself in a shop window or attempt to do the fly up in my jeans.

And every year the only role models I manage to dredge up are Nigella Lawson, who is so rich she can afford to look however she likes. Ditto Oprah and Dawn French. Ditto Ruth Reichl, the American food writer who seems to eat every minute of the day, according to Twitter. I eventually realise that I am far too poor to be overweight and accept that most people, most of the time, are not fat.

But last year was different. At the time Wendyl's Top Role Model Search was about to air in my head, I was able to take some comfort in the fact that my husband had grown a spare tyre. Having taken the nicotine addiction away he found himself unable to get through the day without three pies and a sausage roll for breakfast.

I watched with fascination as "tall and lanky" became "biggish" and I liked it. No, I loved it.

To his face I said I liked having something to "grab on to" and that I found him just as attractive as ever. Words I have heard said to me on many occasions. But secretly, it just felt so much more reassuring to have a partner in the weight issue department. For the first time in our relationship I no longer felt like the one with a problem. We were fat and happy together and had a whole new interest to share as we discussed limiting carbs, exercising more and alcohol-free days. We tried diets together and laughed when he was briefly blinded by low-blood sugar.

We discussed the merits of ancient grains and experimented with them, before agreeing that caveman food was better left to the cavemen.

And I began to understand why women lovingly pat their husband's beer bellies as they serve them up lashings of fish and chips with potato fritters on the side. A fat husband is a great comfort blanket, a shield of acceptance, a veil of reassurance. I needed no fat role models last year, I was happy just being me. And then my husband found the three things I lack: self-discipline, vanity and alcohol-free days.

He booked himself in to see my hypnotist whom I went to to see to lose weight but didn't. I woke every morning to a cold bed he had vacated at 5.30 to go to the gym, and every week he found more room between his waist and his jeans.

And then it was all gone. Mr Long and Lanky was back and the advice started pouring in.

"Exercise is the key but it's 50 per cent diet over 40," he started. "I find it useful to take three breaths when I'm about to eat something I shouldn't. You could try that. Don't get me wrong. You look great as you are, but as you can see, it's not that difficult."

"As you can see, you are a freak," I responded. "Fish and chips for dinner?" I've taken out a subscription to Oprah magazine and I'm following Nigella Lawson on Twitter. I love those guys.