FAT? A FEMINIST issue? No, no: fat is a “classist” issue these days, darlings. During a recent swim through the social piranha pool that gathers at the school gate, poshmum was struck by a hitherto unnoticed phenomenon; one that required swift investigation.

As she approached the school gate — Jackie O-style sunglasses on her nose, all the better to gaze at the gathering crowd — she noticed that the mothers seemed to have organised themselves on the basis of size. The heftier ones, in trendy cotton skirts and pastel cardis, were gathered near the door, while the slender, pointy-elbowed ones (clad in body-hugging jeans or light, cotton trousers slung low enough to display generous portions of pelvic girdle), congregated on the other side of the playground.

Sheer poundage was not the only difference between the groups; the size 14s (and up) all had soft, beautiful skin and bouncy hair, while the Skinny-Mum clique sported hair with decidedly straw-like tendencies.

There wasn’t much of a meeting ground between the rival camps, and poshmum was briefly transported in time to her own little gang at school. “Isn’t it funny how the pecking order never really changes?” she mused. “Simply substitute Body Mass as the club criteria instead of the old requirement for rich dads, perfect hair and blemish-free skin, and there you have it!” As the mothers waited for their children to be released, they instinctively formed an orderly crocodile. While waiting, she couldn’t resist giving herself an involuntary pat on her left shoulder where the shiny, red prefect’s badge used to be. It was only with enormous effort that she refrained from handing out demerits for talking in line, and it felt natural to force her way to the head of the queue to take her rightful place next to the alpha mum (incidentally, both rich and thin).

Driving away, the memory of her teenage power trips began to fade, to be replaced with worrying thoughts about her little “secret”. She had always been enviably slim, revelling in the fact that she could eat whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted. She enjoyed teasing her girlie gang by ordering lip-smackingly scrumptious meals and devouring every last morsel under the pursed-lipped, censorious gaze of her less fortunate lunch buddies. Those glory days were over, and her friends could enjoy a moment of Schadenfreude as poshmum refused the bread basket and declined her customary large chablis.

What to do? Visions of a local rival swam before her eyes; tall and willowy, this mum had her midriff on permanent display, sporting thick, cropped jumpers and low jeans in winter, and the hippest Roxy and Quiksilver stylings in the summer. She looked great — from six hundred yards away; up close she looked beyond tired, with the aged skin of a desiccated peach, and the telltale baby-fine fluff besides.

Poshmum had overheard her laughing about not having eaten in the past seven years — very Patsy from Ab-Fab, yet also clearly true. What is the point of having a bod that entices White Van Man to shout his customary vulgarities, only to endure total humiliation when he accelerates away in horror (after copping a look of one’s withered old visage)? This is not an option.

Poshmum’s thoughts flicked to another neighbour, a woman with sparkling eyes, milky skin and a bust that other husbands never failed to comment upon. Unfortunately, gorgeous busts are usually accompanied by vast, centaur-like behinds; this was not an option either.

There was only one thing for it: Atkins, Atkins, Atkins, dump the kids with the nanny, and ratchet her gym routine to even more punishing levels. She might die of exhaustion, but she’d die in a size ten, with good skin and a Porkinson banger in each hand.