BRIONY GORDON: I’m in mixed-weight couple and hubby nonetheless ravishes me

Here’s something I don’t often bring up in polite conversation: I weigh more than my husband. I look like I’ve eaten him for breakfast.

Quite frequently I do eat him for breakfast, in a purely figurative sense, of course, when I realise he hasn’t sent his dad a birthday card or booked time off work for the family holiday.

Anyway, I don’t really talk about the size thing, because after a lifetime of self-loathing, it’s only relatively recently that I’ve got to the stage where I no longer define myself by my weight. I’ve been there, done that, and it’s only ever left me feeling miserable (and hungry).

So here I stand, curvy, confident and covered in compliments from my adoring husband, who has no complaints whatsoever about my larger frame, certainly not if the ravishing he gave me last night is anything to go by.

But I know it bothers others. I know it does because you only have to look at the bile levelled at footballer Declan Rice’s girlfriend Lauren Fryer earlier this year, when vile trolls making comments about her weight forced Fryer to take down her social media.

And I know it bothers others because respectable magazines that usually only publish pieces about politics and business will drop everything to produce long polemics about the fact the new series of Bridgerton features a couple who have lots of hot sex, even though the female is apparently bigger than the male. I mean, imagine! In The Spectator, one (female) writer produced an entire article about how unlikely it was that the ‘handsome, rich’ Colin Bridgerton would want Nicola Coughlan, who plays his love interest Penelope. ‘She is not hot, and there’s no escaping it … she’s fat,’ went the piece, for about 1,000 words.

Meanwhile, readers of Forbes, who include CEOs and titans of industry, were this week treated to a lengthy piece entitled ‘Are we still not ready for a mixed-weight romance on screen?’ Clearly not, at least when the ‘fat’ person in the relationship happens to be a woman.

Because in truth, culture has been full to the brim of ‘mixed-weight romances’ since the dawn of television. It’s just that, as far as I can tell, neither The Spectator nor Forbes felt compelled to publish pieces exploring the implausibility of the relationships between Marge and Homer Simpson, or Tony and Carmela Soprano.

Now I think about it, the fat husband/thin wife dynamic is an entire trope on television, particularly in sitcoms and cartoons, from Fred and Wilma Flintstone to Charlotte and Harry in Sex and the City.

But fat wife, thin husband? Nobody would ever go for it! (Unless the narrative involves her piling on weight and him leaving for a younger, thinner woman).

My husband and I have always had a mixed-weight romance. Me, soft, undulating, ‘Rubenesque’, as he drooled on one of our first dates; him, lean, muscly, partial to wearing tight white Gap T-shirts I can’t get over my heaving bosom, thus quashing the fantasy I always had about padding around a boyfriend’s flat looking ‘cute’ in his oversized tops and boxers (it’s Harry who steals my jumpers, turns out).

I had always carried a ridiculous patriarchal belief that I needed to be small to get a man, that a bloke would find me attractive only if he could hold me in his arms like King Kong. Then I met Harry and was reminded that not all blokes are that shallow or vacuous.

Ironically, it was his love of me in all my dimpled, wobbly glory that set me on the path to my own self-acceptance, and the knowledge I deserve to exist and be happy whatever my body looks like.

But I know our mixed-weight romance surprises some people. There are the friends who would never be so impolite as to mention my size, but frequently mention his. ‘Gosh, isn’t Harry looking svelte!’ they will say, when we meet for lunch. Usually my husband is eating some sort of lean protein and salad while I enjoy the contents of the bread basket. ‘He always looks svelte,’ I point out, in between mouthfuls. ‘Now pass me the butter.’

As a plus-size woman who loves to parade around in my bikini on social media, I’m used to the fatphobia levelled at Nicola Coughlan (who, let’s face it, isn’t actually fat at all).

I am frequently body-shamed by strangers; the other day, while jogging along the river, a man decided to shout ‘run, fatty, run’ at me, as if this might improve both of our days. For the record, he was sitting on his behind, doing nothing more energetic than smoking a cigarette.

I am regularly sent messages by faceless trolls, detailing how disgusting they find me, and how little they would like to have sex with me. Rather chillingly, it never seems to cross their minds that I wouldn’t want to have sex with them.

It’s all enough to make me want to misquote Winston Churchill: ‘I may be fat, but in the morning I will get to eat hash browns for breakfast and you will still be a nasty little misogynist.’ Indeed, our obsession with women’s bodies is all encompassing and exhausting. It’s not just weight differences that get commented on in relationships, but height and age differences, too.

I don’t think people realise how deeply unattractive it is to hear someone make comments about another person’s body. You may as well stick a giant red flag in the ground next to you, one that reads: ‘JUDGEMENTAL, PERSONALITY-FREE FOOL’.

Which brings me to my biggest problem with Bridgerton (and it’s nothing to do with weight). It’s that brilliant, bold Penelope Featherington would ever want to have sex with the charisma-vacuum that is Colin. Now that is bad casting.