How many spontaneous, fun-loving, friendly people out there hide an inner Miss Houghton? Miss Houghton (my mother’s spinster headmistress and my nickname as a bossy four-year-old) is the one who perches on a straight-backed chair inside your head with a two-metre ruler across her bony lap, ready to beat you up mercilessly after you scoff that second helping of dessert you really weren’t planning on having. She has absolutely no qualms about spoiling a good night out either, just because your jeans are a little too tight. She even gets to choose your fat days. She’s a right bitch to be honest, and there are many of us out there, myself included, who’ve let her rule the roost for much too long, perhaps without even realising it.