WHAT am I going to wear?

This isn’t just any old party, you know.

It’s being organised by Significant (Thin) Other’s ex-wife (the rich American one, not the Blackpool-based one who’s the mother of his children – this lot make a Dynasty storyline look like a chapel-based coffee morning).

I’ve never met her before, just lived in the shadow of her wealth, distant relation status to the American President (second cousins or something), stories of Tiffany twiddle sticks and a “small, very small” Picasso gathering dust under the bed, her BLONDE HAIR, SIZE 34F CHEST and SIZE 12 FRAME.

Top heavy she may be, but brilliant, beautiful, connected and – here’s the clincher – considerate she most definitely is. Don’t it just make you sick?

So I’m eating soup. No Tiger rolls from Tesco to dip in. In readiness. Scoffing pineapple chunks and grapes by the bucket load too. To lose a stone. Just the one. Just in case I need less of me to feel more.

I’m letting my roots go a bit manky so I can have a new dye job the week before, practising with high hells (sic) in the evenings, thinking nice thoughts to get me in the mood so that I’m not Bad Hannah that day.

You know, the day OF THE MEETING.

Anyway, how civilised is this? Not only do Wife Number 2 and my S(T)O get on really well – she even asks about me for God’s sake – she’s organising his goodbye party before he moves in with me.

No, not his good riddance party – they’re far too grown-up for all that.

She’s organising a do to say farewell to her former love – my current one... keeping up? – and inviting all his friends over to say tata to him and (gulp) hiya to me.

So not only do I have to make merry with the American with the boobs and things, I also have to play sociable with a gang of strangers.

So I’ll repeat again – WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO WEAR?

Which brings me neatly to the soup and pineapple plan.

But my reasoning – well, Gillian McKeith’s actually, otherwise known as the diminutive diet dictator – is that I could lose a total of three stone by the time I have to go to play Is She Worth Leaving Your Home For? with the Cheshire set.

So I’m watching an advance copy of McKeith’s new Channel 4 show, Three Fat Brides, One Thin Dress (which is on tonight, incidentally).

In each episode Smug the Scot meets three “bulging brides-to-be” (her term, not mine) in desperate need of her help. They’ve got just eight weeks to transform their appearance and well-being, with the prize of the wedding dress of her dreams for the bride who has the greatest success.

But it’s not just about weight loss: the brides must pledge to stick to McKeith’s vows, and the winner will love her foods, honour her regime and obey her rules to her wedding day and beyond.

Anyway, the girls lost around two stones each just by munching on pulses and grains with names I can’t spell let alone pronounce.

So I got to thinking, if they can do it, why can’t I?

Then I tried lentils. Then I had a nut. Then I came to my senses.

Then I heard of another friend who’s had gastric bypass surgery who’s only allowed to have a tea-plate sized amount of food a day.

It’s a liquid diet and she’s lost so much weight in a month, another friend wondered if she’d been dieting or simply loosened her necklace.

It was – and roll around with me in the words every dieter wants to hear, just for a minute – hanging off her. Bliss. I’m following her lead and going on a soft food diet (notice how swiftly I moved from a liquid diet to one with the word food in it?).

I don’t know how long I’ll stick it out, but I’ve got a blonde in my mind sat under a wonderful work of art, regaling good friends with tales of happy days she and my man spent together.

S(T)O says I’m mad – but also beautiful and brilliant and other Esperanto I don’t understand.

I just about picked out, “They’ll all adore you like I do and want to be around you.” But as I said to him, I have to at least FEEL I look good while I’m false smiling and trying to look someone in the eyes and not the chest.

If that isn’t inspiration enough, I don’t know what is.

Not for a second did I think ...

TWO bits of good news this week. Greedy bugger, eh? There’s also some bad vibes floating around, but they are from my fellow Fat Club members who put weight on last week.

BUT I LOST FOUR POUNDS!

As you know, until the end of last week it’d been boiling hot.

I’m not sure if that’s supposed to affect people’s weight – I’d always been told that you ate less in the summer (although I’ve not noticed a slowing down in my chewing abilities).

But when the girls in front of me in the FC queue ALL failed to lose anything, they all had the same one-size-fits-all- lardy-arses explanation: “Must be the weather.” (Yep, that or the fact they ate their body weight in barbecue sauce because they convinced themselves that al fresco dining is fat free).

One by one they’d stand on the scales while the evil-tongued thinnie in bold gold jewellery in charge of writing down the damage in their chubby check book would break the news that they’d failed in the weigh game.

And they’d all, bar none, get this look on their face; not a look of idle acceptance that they’d obviously sinned and were now paying the price. But one of total disbelief – you know, like the one you have when you’re told eating 10 fat-free pizzas is okay as long as you don’t swallow.

Too good to be true? Whenever you see that promise, it usually is.

Girl number one: “I’ve put on? There must be some mistake. I only had three pints of lager this weekend. It must be the weather.”

Bold Gold Weigher: “Yes, it must be the weather. (And I’m surprised the scales don’t say ‘sorry we don’t do livestock’ when you step on it). Next!”

Girl number two: “That can’t be right. Two pounds on? I’ve been really good all week and only been eating barbecue food. Do you think it’s the weather?”

Bold Gold Weigher: “That’ll be it. (And I bet that when you go to an all-you-can-eat barbecue, they have to install speed bumps). Next!”

Girl number three: “Here’s hoping for a loss... sorry? What did you say? That can’t be right, love. I’ve been living on fruit! Scones, bara brith, strawberry gateau. All low fat, mind. It’s this bloody weather – it makes you want to eat more.”

Bold Gold Weigher: “Bound to be the weather. (You may be 36-24-36, but that’s the measurement for your forearm, neck, and thigh.) Next!”

Me: “Four pounds off? That can’t be right. Must be this heat.”

But a four pound loss it was, bringing a genuine smile to the face of the queen of mean.
And I’m not talking about me there. For weeks now, I’ve felt stuck in a rut, failing to notice the weight that I had lost. I was not only losing weight, but context. I simply felt that I looked the same and that I needed a really big push to get me over the stumbling block, to haul my big fat *** over the two stone barrier and into that mystical land of Three.

What I needed was something palpable to make me feel better about myself.

Anyway, I found it in a shopping trip with my mother. Armed with a 40% press discount card for Outfit in Merthyr, we arrived ostensibly to look at the small Evans section.
But Mam Jones, ever the optimist, said I should look at some of the – gulp – size 20s from other sections.

... I could fit into a size 20 or even a 22 – I can’t remember the last time I was that small or went into a “normal” shop for anything other than accessories.

But you would not – WOULD NOT – believe my joy when I left with two size 22 tops from Evans (result!) and A SIZE 20 BLOUSE FROM WALLIS. Wallis!

It’s white, it’s low cut, it’s GOT ROOM AROUND THE BELLY AREA!

But do you want to know the best news of all? I didn’t celebrate my massive loss and gain with two corned beef rolls and a packet of crisps.

I’m thinking it must have something to do with the weather...