Why, as a thin woman, I always have to act cautiously around my overweight friends.

The holiday in Tenerife was wonderfully relaxing. Especially as we had stayed at an all-inclusive hotel, which meant any food or drink order was just a polite wave away.

It’s no surprise then that after a week of calorie-laden cocktails served with fuller bowls of nuts and chips, I returned home with a couple of extra unwanted pounds.

It’s not worth keeping the cover. However, it’s the kind of annoying detail that, as women, we often share with our closest friends. After all, isn’t empathy for even the smallest concerns one of the great pleasures of female friendship?

But sitting in a cafe catching up with an old school friend shortly after my trip, I found myself deliberately censoring this detail of our conversation. Because? Because, whether we like it or not, size matters and my friend is significantly overweight.

How the hell could I complain about gaining a couple of pounds when I still fit into my size ten jeans? Especially because he has been fighting flaccidity for years. Any complaint about my own weight would surely sound smug, disingenuous, and deeply annoying.

In fact, it surprises me that I routinely walk and talk about eggshells when I’m with her, careful to avoid any topics that might highlight the disparity in our sizes.

I don’t show her pictures of the skintight dress I’m hoping to buy for a special occasion like I might with other slimmer friends. When we go out to eat, I pretend I’m full when I really want dessert, since she’s always trying something, anything, to lose weight.

It’s not like she’s the only one who unknowingly triggers this judiciously calorie-free behavior in me.

There are others (friends, colleagues) who I cautiously tiptoe around because I know they too struggle to lose large amounts of weight. Yes, it’s tiring, but what else should I do?

Understandably, there are many on the other side of the fence who say their situation is much worse: having to watch thin women who seem immune to weight gain devour numerous chocolates and then wear tight dresses.

And it is true that editing what I say or how is something completely self-imposed. Not to mention a little disingenuous, as a particularly clever friend pointed out.

We were having lunch together when this friend, who was struggling with another unworkable diet, ordered a miserable salad with no dressing. I felt compelled to do the same, although after a busy morning at work I was craving a baked potato with grated cheese.

Maybe he heard my stomach growl or saw the half-hearted expression on my face when our lunch arrived.

Either way, he took the fork out of my hand and declared, ‘Ange, for the love of God, order whatever you want.’ I know what you’re doing and it doesn’t help. I have overweight. Live with it. I know what I do.’

She then went on to say that while she appreciated my attempts to be sensitive, it bothered her more that I couldn’t be myself around her. What’s more, she felt condescended to and belittled when her friends went out of their way to avoid anything she recognized as a disparity between waistlines.

I felt embarrassed and flabbergasted that my enormously wise, big-hearted, and, yes, overweight friend had discovered my flaky do-gooder routine. From that moment on, I vowed to only act naturally and be true to myself and my waistline.

That was a few years ago and I’ve fallen off that wagon ever since.

I just feel like it’s cruel and uncomfortable to behave any other way. But why? Especially since I am a journalist whose working life revolves around asking difficult questions and confronting thorny issues.

And it’s not my fault if willpower or a complex, even addictive, relationship with food makes it almost impossible for some to grab a single cookie from the can. It’s also not my fault if, thanks to my good genes and my inability to sit still, I’ve never had a weight problem. So what is going on?

I must emphasize that my approach has nothing to do with the prevailing woke culture that insists on softening hard truths or offending us with a blade of grass.

If anything, health education about obesity should be relentless: endorsing it as an acceptable life choice is not only foolish but, frankly, dangerous.

But when it comes to personal interaction with someone who is clearly overweight, I find myself cautiously doing my best to avoid drawing attention to my own slimmer size. Not because, God forbid, I’m conceited, but precisely because I’m not.

It happened recently when a generously proportioned acquaintance came to chat with me at a wedding reception. His initial tactic was a compliment on the outfit he was wearing and how flattering it was on my figure.

‘How do you stay so thin? “I could never wear something like that,” she observed as her eyes roamed over the tulle dress that was carefully cinched around my waist. Instead of enjoying the compliment, I did what I always do and tried to reject it for fear of making her feel bad about herself.

‘This fabric is so itchy it should come with a health warning!’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter the dress, these shoes are killing me!’ And then she quickly changed the subject.

Unfortunately, this dilemma has become more prevalent as I get older.

As a woman in her 50s, I constantly encounter others who talk about dealing with unwanted weight due to the hormonal and metabolic changes caused by menopause.

It’s a topic that looms large (sorry), as this stage of life has become a prevalent topic of conversation thanks to relentless celebrity endorsements.

Personally, I was lucky enough to avoid weight gain during “the change” and weigh perhaps only a pound more than I did 30 years ago.

However, it’s not all a matter of luck. I walk briskly, bike and swim to keep the pounds off.

I spend as much energy staying in shape as I do avoiding the topic of size with my overweight friends. Yes, talking about summer sandals instead of swimsuits is an avoidance tactic.

When it comes to size, I admit I’m a huge wimp.