Sunday 23 October 2011

Faking it

I have a lot of respect for my ancestors. How those women managed to survive entombed in whalebone corsets, the only relief coming from the occasional waft of smelling salts, amazes me. This is perhaps the only point over which I won’t kick up a fuss if ever faced with my Edwardian relations telling me that I have been spoilt by modern life and wouldn’t know what it’s like to really suffer.

I decided to take the plunge as the date of my niece’s Christening encroached and I still hadn’t got any further in losing my, ahem, Christmas weight. I’d ordered my dress in my ‘smaller’ size, after resolving to run ten miles every day and survive solely on goji berries, which was precisely why last week I found myself in the Debenhams changing room with a selection of drop-a-dress size mechanisms and an over-eager assistant.

I was unsure as to whether my first offering, which I had been assured was in my size, should be pulled up or yanked down. I opted for the former but only managed to slide it up as far as my knees before the friction became too much. I had to pause for a breather before grasping the upper hem, in the same way that I’d cling onto a cliff edge for dear life, and tugged. I’d got it halfway over my backside when my helpful assistant called out to check on my progress.

’I’m fine!’ I squeaked, taking a deep breath and resuming my clawing grip on the nylon. I knew I sounded like a constipated grizzly as I felt my triceps take the strain, but desperation was kicking in. The underwear inched up my trunk, every millimetre making a difference, but unfortunately my hopping around on the spot didn’t take my boots into consideration.

I didn’t actually flash, but the bruise along my temple did lead to a few raised eyebrows after my Godmotherly duties. But at least I sported a cinched in waist and, due to my depleted oxygen supply, needed little bubbly to get the after party started. Perhaps the Edwardians were onto something…

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