Minus the magic knickers

The Christmas party has been and gone. I decided to abandon the magic knickers and instead opted for a week of starvation, which proved to be much more effective! Although predictably I am now finding myself roaming around work excessively sampling the pre Christmas delights of mince pies, pakora, cakes, biscuits, samosa and chocolates. (One of the advantages of working in such a multicultural environment has been the revelation that is pakora).

The realisation that I can be feminine has been one of great excitement. Though I have to admit it is too time consuming and exhausting for me to consider adopting it as a lifestyle change anytime soon. The endless appointments of having bits added, other bits removed and more bits straighted in the end proved tiresome (Incidently these bits being nail varnish, eyebrows and hair). But I am still smiling at the fact I wore a long, grey, clingy dress and pulled it off. Looking feminine that is, not the dress.

Most amusing of all the pre party preparations had to be the St Tropez tan. Having had one before I had a hazy recollection of what to expect, but typically my mind had blocked out the true extent of humiliation. As I stood there naked aside from a pair of paper knickers, legs astride, arms in the air with a woman brandishing a gun just inches from me, I was reminded. It did however serve as the perfect opportunity to road test my banal conversation, she did not seem wholly impressed!

So it was that three quarters of an hour later, wearing an eclectic assortment of old baggy clothes, covered head to toe in brown vegetable dye and emitting a rather odd odour that I made my way home.

The requisite 8 hours later (well 7 hours 45 minutes as I had to go to work) I washed off the dye, which had now taken on a scarily orange tone. Thankfully the washed off version was far more appealing to the eye and reasonably authentic looking (good job really as I don’t think turning orange is an acceptable reason for not going into work). As it was, it proved to be a source of amusement for the patients as they made endless wisecrack comments about my sudden change in colour. Of course like a true professional I smiled as they asked if I had to pay more in view of the extra surface area they had to cover. Compared to this, banal Christmas party chit chat would be a doddle.

Magic Knickers

…Tis the season to be jolly and the season to run around shops in a frantic rush to find a dress for the Christmas party.

The dress hire shop. In theory every girls dream, in reality a bit of a nightmare, unless that is you have the perfect size 10 figure. Though of course in today’s society size 10 has been literally downsized to a generous size 6. The assortment of dresses, some frilly, some sparkly and a couple even bearing a suspiciously leopard skin looking print sent me into panic.

Panic subsided and an hour later I had decided upon a sparkly, grey, long, clingy number. The latter of which has now become a cause for concern. I have what could be referred to as a curvaceous figure. This has led to 10 days of concerted effort to try and make the overall effect more pleasing to the eye. Key to this has been subjecting my midriff to electric impulses, succumbing to Slendertone’s advertising blurb. But the secret weapon in this assault has been the acquisition of some super duper hold it all it, boost it all up underwear. The much touted magic knickers. Except of course they aren’t magic, there is no miraculous vanishing of flesh. It simply displaces it to very bizarre places! As Mr P pointed out as I subjected him to the "am I or aren't I wearing" game.

Faced with a vast array of choices, even this purchase wasn’t straightforward. I could seemingly suck in/boost my bum, thighs and stomach or a combination of the aforementioned. There was even a stretchy lycra tube sucking everything in from armpits to knees. As might be expected it was not a sexy look, that actually being a huge understatement. Added to this was the complication that the sparkly, grey, long, clingy dress had a low cut back and a slit up the front. Neither conducive to disguising such unattractive undergarments. Faced with this dilemma a full on attack was decided upon. So it was that 4 hours later I arrived home with a variety of lycra.

As for shoes; I have over the past week taken to doing housework in my newly acquired high heeled, strappy, glittery sandals. Thankfully my walking has progressed, from precarious teetering to a semi confident stagger. It would seem I am a long way from elegant gliding.

I can only be thankful that Christmas parties come just once a year.