I thought I was being so good ...

... now that I’m a proper cohabiting grown-up for the very first time in my life.

Not only was I moving Significant (thin) Other in from his barn – yes, barn – to my terraced two up/two down in Hengoed AND dropping off a desk at his ex-wife’s (the second cousin to George Bush Snr, you know, her of the Picasso under the bed and size 12 glamour), I also thought I’d watch what I ate while the Big Move got underway. It was all going swimmingly, until it came to dropping off said desk.

There we all were, S(t)O, housemate Hiya Love and me in a vehicle that looked like a giant burger van, the word Jumbo emblazoned on the side just so there wasn’t any mistake, when the light of my life said it was time to pay a visit to Baubles.

I looked, after two days in a van moving furniture and cables and cases and crates, like a sack of the proverbial gone wrong. So I was in no mood to face dainty toes in that state because I knew she’d be all prepared for my little hello.

Baubles had called S(t)O and asked if I’d be going along to deposit the office furniture, which we all know really translates in the language of girl as, “Is SHE coming round? If so, I’m going to have to make sure I’m looking my best.”

It’s a universal standard, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter if you know someone isn’t emotionally involved with a former love any more, you’ve just got to know that you will be talked about in the right way if you bump into them.

Me? Well, I’m always riddled with doubts that I’ll be forever referred to as that “big bird”, the “fat girlfriend”, how about “funny, quite witty I suppose... but awfully plain”. You know what I’m talking about.

So I did what any sweating, dieting, untidy, scruffy, tired, testy girl would do: I sent in Hiya Love.

Armed with a satellite dish on his head, dictaphone and camera ready to beam information back to me and Mam Jones back in the Rassau, I hopped out of the van and walked the two miles to Tesco to sedate myself with a BBQ chicken wrap, full fat Coke and three fags.

(Amazing, isn’t it, how quickly good intentions fade away when you feel out of your comfort zone?)

Twenty minutes later, the burger van pulled up just in time for me to wipe the BBQ sauce off my mouth and spray the smell of fag ash away with eau de freebie from the smellies aisle.

“Don’t ask,” went Hiya Love, a man who normally judges a woman’s worth by the amount of pegs she uses to hang up a tea towel on a rotary line.

“She’s posher than anyone we know, has more proper art on the walls than a gallery, was all glammed up, got CREAM carpets running through the house and there was an actress from Coronation Street having a cup of coffee in the kitchen.

“Thank God you didn’t go in looking like that. You would have had a turn.”

He meant it with love; I took it badly to heart.

So much to heart, in fact, that through my skewed Hannah Filter I took it to mean that I would never be as good, glam, connected and cream carpeted as Baubles because – look away now – I’m fat.

It’s because I judge myself not by how fabulous I am, how clever, witty, warm hearted or loved... but because I always seem to have BBQ sauce on my chops.

And on my fingers. And usually, running down my clothes. Whereas grace seems to drip off everyone else.