Anyway, I returned the purple dress. And the two red ones which followed. I finally settled on a black dress which I couldn't afford but which was very long so covered my legs and very low cut so showed off the only plus points about gaining weight.
I looked passable, even quite nice. Not the 'quite nice' as Keira Knightley describes herself in 'Love Actually' when she watches her wedding video. 'Oh, I look quite nice' she coos self-depreciatingly when we all know that SHE knows she is in fact quite stunning and we all want to kill her for her youth and skinny-ness.
No, I looked quite nice, as in 'OK', not TOO fat. Or so I thought.
'Twas a traditional office Christmas do - got ready for about 3 hours with my friends Kelly, Rachael and Mandy, drank Cava and cassis and discussed the possibility of giving the whole thing a miss and just staying in our hotel room upstairs, getting drunk. Finally, we decided we'd spent too much money and time for that and trooped downstairs in time for mulled wine before dinner.
Dinner went without a hitch but I knew I'd drunk too much when I found myself telling my gay work colleague that I bet I could turn him. I'm cringing as I write this.
But it gets worse.
First, I fell over on the dance floor - YES - it was ME! There is one at every office party and it was me. My only consolation is that this happened at the beginning of the evening before I was truly drunk. I tripped over the hem of my too long dress and laughed so much that I couldn't get up.
Then my Australian colleague (the one who runs marathons before breakfast) asked if my breasts were real, poked her fingers down my dress and jiggled them about.
Soon after this, I watched as my friend Carl skidded on his knees across the dance floor like a five year old at a wedding reception - very funny until I remembered he'd borrowed Big Al's £400 hand built DJ and trousers.
Tequila, sambuca and some self conscious dancing like my mum followed. I took myself off to bed after I found myself shouting backing vocals to 'New York, New York' across the bar to Paul, the Irishman responsible for the tequila and sambuca. Kelly and I had found it hard to say no to a very drunk male equivalent of Father Ted's housekeeper. 'Go on, go on, go on, go on. It's only a little shot'.
Anyway, it was time for a swift exit and as I stumbled to bed, I congratulated myself on surviving the evening without too much humiliation.
Sadly, the next morning, I was sent a link to someone's Facebook photos. There I was, red faced and sweating, doubled up with laughter after being retrieved from the floor. There I was, downing shots with my cleavage hanging over the remains of the turkey dinner. But worst of all, there were Kelly and I, at the beginning of the evening, wearing dresses which we thought had turned us into to Amazonian Angelina lookalikes but which made us look like the 'Before' photos for Weight Watchers recruits, on our way to the Gala Bingo Christmas party.
I can't bear it. I went back to the gym this week and have been 3 times since. I must, I must, I must reduce my bust.