It is a few weeks ago now, but when out shopping with mother she spied a red dress that she thought would really suit me. It was one of these ruched, clingy, show up everything, lycra filled numbers and really, even when I tried it on I wasn't that sure, but she insisted and so the dress was purchased.
It wasn't until I got it home she told me I needed a pair of magic knickers to wear under it. Gee thanks mum!
Not only, she continued, did I need a pair of magic knickers, but it would be better if I got a pair that extended from just below my bra to virtually my knees. Nora flaming Batty eat your heart out.
A pair were duly ordered and arrived, were tried out even. Suffice to say to get them on requires the kind of workout any gym bunny would be proud of, involving a mixture of pelvic thrusts and sumo style balancing on alternative feet and squatting whilst pulling up with all your might.
Don't think about it too much, you'll not sleep.
And when they're on, the inability to bend satisfactorily leaves you so that you have to slouch rather than sit on a seat. Oh, and you should try bending to get into a taxi.
So why then, did I proceed to buy a pair of skinny jeans (which are effectively just magic knickers that extend to your ankles) last week? Honestly, I have no idea. If this is a mid-life crisis, I should just have got a tattoo.
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