Even with the obligatory Trinny and Susannah big knicks (I've done Gok, I've done Spanx and yet I always return to the painful, yet somehow comforting familiarity of the nude sausage-like tubing with the cheek chafing thong) my wobbly womanly bits could not be contained. I suppose it stands to reason; there's only so much flab you can squash into what's basically a tube of reinforced elastic, before it makes a bid for freedom. And, like a tube of toothpaste with an irritating little hole in it, mine comes out top and bottom. I end up with an impressive pair of man boobs and two cushion like, blobby protrudements (not sure that is even a word!) like a codpiece halfway down each hip. Then there's the sad, saggy old-lady skin under my arms. It literally appeared overnight the day I reached 49 and refuses to budge. It looks particularly fetching if I forget to shave my armpits - a bit like Desperate Dan's stubbly chin hanging there complete with dimple. Well, needless to say the divine, slinky t-shirt maxi looked like a sack of old spuds on me and was swiftly handed back to the stick-thin 20 something shop assistant. I can still see her pitying smirk now.
No, I'm not talking t-shirt maxis - save them for the waif-like Godalming wives you see drifting around Catwalk, or anyone under 22. I'm talking goddess - gorgeous Grecian maxis with elasticated bodices and lovely folds of comforting jersey or heavyweight brushed nylon that skim across your lumps and cellulite and caress your varicose veins. Mind you they are hard to find - often a skimpier, floatier and less forgiving version can catch you off-guard - and avoid large, swirling patterns at all costs - you'll get too much attention for all the wrong reasons.
I made that sorry mistake recently at a music festival when far too much cider lulled me into believing I truly was a waif-like, boho rock-chick. Off I trolled, on the look out for a lovely dress to match my lovely new (deluded) self-awareness, and there it was - a silky, slippery, multi-coloured vision of freedom and hippy-chic. No sooner had I fingered the tantalising silkiness of the fabric and the irresistible allure of the price tag - "£29 quid to you love and I'll give you a discount if you buy two" - than I was writhing in the sweaty changing room (v.small zip-up tent) stripping off my black t-shirt and jeans with drunken abandon and flailing as much of myself as humanly possible into the dress.
"Oh, you look great", said the blind salesman with forked tongue as I stared at myself in the magic mirror - and I really thought I did. Off I went, £29 poorer and non-the-bloody-wiser, to buy the obligatory black cowboy hat to go with obligatory floaty dress. I thought I looked the business, the bees-knees in fact as I re-joined my friends and boogied away to Level 42. I'd even turned a few heads as I floated back through the crowds. Unfortunately I soon found out why, when best man-friend Rick stuck his hand into the gaping hole where the seams of my new dress had come apart and prodded the mound of blubber escaping from the aforesaid trin and sus sausage-knickers, kind of spoiled the moment somehow. Luckily, the sun was sinking along with my self-esteem, and it wasn't long before the soothing cover of darkness hid my flubbery shame. But honestly. The next day when I tried on my dress again I could have cried - blancmange does not even begin to describe it. I looked like one of those frothy, crinoline toilet paper covers beloved of great-grandmothers who love to crochet. Into the wardrobe drawer of shame went the dress, only ever to emerge again when a) no-one is at home b) I feel ultra-fat and need a cover-up c) it's fancy dress and the theme is fat gypsies.
But TODAY I found the one. She is divine. Firstly she is black (we Crones should always wear this, the colour of our hair dye and our moods). Secondly she is empire line - oh how I spurned empire line for many a younger year, only now to embrace it's gentle, forgiving folds. And thirdly she is of really thick, non clingy fabric within inbuilt structuring that contains even my boulder-like bosoms. I am in love with my maxi and I don't mind admitting it.
