Bryony Gordon

3 weeks ago | dailymail.co.uk | Bryony Gordon

When I was only eight years old, I heard the words that all girls growing up in the 1980s and 1990s dreaded. ‘Gosh, hasn’t Bryony got an appetite on her?’It was bellowed by a friend of my father’s, who had come round for Sunday lunch. At the time, such comments about female bodies were so normalised that it barely registered on anyone else’s radar. But to me it felt completely humiliating. I put down the Yorkshire pudding I had been enjoying and felt a hot stab of shame run through my body.

4 weeks ago | dailymail.co.uk | Bryony Gordon

The first time it happened, I was doing one of the most boring exercises known to humankind: the calf raise. So dull is this movement that I had resisted it for years, reasoning that the backs of my legs could become strong enough through other, more interesting types of exercise: reformer pilates, perhaps, or something actually useful, like cycling.

1 month ago | dailymail.co.uk | Bryony Gordon

If I were a producer on a daytime TV show, the type that women watch in their millions for its thoughtful coverage of everything from breast cancer to binge-eating disorders, there’s only one issue I’d be interested in covering right now. It’s the story of how, looking to fund coverage of next year’s football World Cup, the head of ITV has taken a great big axe to its most popular shows for women.

1 month ago | dailymail.co.uk | Bryony Gordon

The terrible thoughts in my head had been building for some time, but it was on Tuesday morning that they peaked. My husband had left for work, my daughter for school and I was alone in the house when my brain began to go to war on me. What if I had done something awful to someone on the Tube the evening before and blanked it out because I was secretly a psychopath? Had I accidentally sent my child to school with a water bottle full of bleach?

1 month ago | dailymail.co.uk | Bryony Gordon

It’s the early hours of Monday morning and I am standing in the middle of the road in my favourite M&S pyjamas, my feet wedged into my 12-year-old daughter’s bright blue Crocs, a leopard-print Puffa flung over my shoulders to keep out the cold. I look quite, quite mad – or more mad than normal, I should perhaps say – as I hoot and holler in the general direction of the next-door neighbour’s window.