“Do you want to slip into something a bit more comfortable?” the beauty therapist asks me. I politely decline, saying I’d rather keep my own clothes on. She insists I change so I reluctantly agree and I’m led to a changing room. “There’s a dressing gown in the locker, pop that on and I’ll wait outside for you.”

I lock the door and let out a huge sigh. I know exactly how this is going to go but I play along anyway. I take the dressing gown and unfold it, hoping that for once, I might be wrong. I take one look and know it’s not going to fit. It’s so small that it’s barely going to cover one of my arms.

I’m fat, you see. Plus size. Curvy. Overweight. Whatever you want to label it, that’s what I am. And so now I have to go back out, my face hot and red with embarrassment, my heart beating out of my chest, and have the same awkward conversation that I’ve had so many times before. I have to admit that, actually, the robe doesn’t fit me. My confession is as mortifying for me as it is for her – mostly because there aren’t any other sizes available, so it’s only then, after all that, that the therapist allows me to keep my own clothes on.

This is the reality of going to a spa as a plus size woman