Extra-strength knickers and sheer willpower No pain no gain! That’s exactly what I kept telling myself as I underwent a strenuous half hour of stretches, squats and pelvic thrusts.

And no, I wasn’t in the gym doing low-impact aerobics. Neither was I re-enacting the first few pages of Kama Sutra.

I was, in fact, getting dressed for a night out last weekend, complete with boa-constrictor corsetry, hold-up stockings and a push-up, push-me-pull-you bra.

A lot of effort for a rainy Saturday in early October you may think. But this wasn’t any ordinary night out. Oh no. This was going to be a very special night indeed ...

I had been dating James for over six months. We were comfortable, happy and relaxed in each other’s company. So I had decided, after much deliberation and soul-searching that tonight was going to be the night. I was going to go for it. At long last I was going to give in to six long months of longing and desire ... and finally wear that skin-tight dress that was two sizes too small.

And to hell with the consequences!

The dress in question had been an irrational internet purchase made one lonely night last year. As I had perused the fashion websites, there it was: the perfect dress, looking irresistible (as everything does) on Kate Moss.

“I could look like that too, if I lost a bit of weight!” I thought to myself, buoyed along on a sea of self-confidence and one too many Smirnoff Ice.

So I had bought it, against all better judgement, even though it was only available in ‘Small’ and I was almost certainly a ‘Medium’ at the very least.

As I tried it on two days later, my initial misgivings were confirmed. I nearly asphyxiated. Mental images of an X-ray showing crushed vertebrae and an imploded rib cage sprung to mind as I struggled to fasten the zip.

But then, having finally managed it using the old coat-hanger-leverage-while-lying-on-bed technique, and having seen how fantastic it looked for the split second before breathing causing the zip to splay asunder, the gung-ho confidence returned.

No I won’t send it back — I shall instead simply keep it in the wardrobe as my incentive to get into shape.

Wee buns! Actually, make that wee dry Ryvita.

So for over a year, there it had hung, untouched and unworn with its virginal swing-tickets still intact. In the meantime, I had been losing weight accordingly. Well at least I thought I had, even though I don’t own a set of weighing scales for self-preservational reasons, so I couldn’t be certain.

So when James suggested a night on the town, I knew this was my moment. But I had to be sure. So before attempting the second approach, I armed myself with all the sartorial tricks of the trade.

First on: the Bridget Jones-style supersmalls. As always, getting them up to the knees was a doddle but attempting to broach the backside wasn’t. After doing an unseemly jig on the spot as I eased it up inch-by-inch to its final destination, I was then ready for the hosiery. But of course I couldn’t bend down, so I had to improvise with the coat hanger, which was now poised on the side of the bed ready for some zealous zip-work.

Eventually, after much pushing, pulling and prodding, I was ready to slip into something even less comfortable — the (too) little black dress ...

Half an hour later, James popped his head round the door.

I was lying on the bed, discarded coat hanger to one side, skin-tight dress seamlessly in place, stilettoed stockinged feet akimbo, completely unable to move.

“I have a better idea, let’s order a takeaway,” he said with an evil grin.