Just to reassure you all, I have been wearing clothes in all the time I have been absent from this blog. (Love the way that the Blogger dictionary doesn't recognise the words 'blogger' or 'blog'. It suggests 'logger' and 'glob'.) The reason for the lack of sartorial updates is that we are moving house in less than a month. I've been de-cluttering.
But here I am. And today we are looking at wardrobe malfunctions. Let us focus on Trinity Sunday, or for most normal people, Jubilee Sunday. You know, when the flotilla went down the Thames? Yes, that Sunday. The weather gods, noting the miles of bunting nationwide, were alerted to the fact we were planning some kind of large scale open air festivity, and duly obliged with wind and rain. It wouldn't be England otherwise, would it?
Well, this meant that my planned outfit (the 50s style dress) needed to be supplemented with tights. I am not good with tights. Or with any kind of sheer hosiery, to be honest. I was once given a genuine pair of silk stockings. I did not make it to the front door without laddering them. So the morning was fraught with tension.
As you may remember, I was proposing to wear a pair of open-toe tights with my sandals. I have two pairs of these. There may be more functions this year requiring such tights, so I knew I needed to be careful. It is possible to buy 'hosiery gloves', which I imagine are for klutzes like me who can't put tights on without laddering them. I don't own hosiery gloves, so I improvised with a pair of pop socks. Actually, we don't call them pop socks any more, do we? We call them 'knee-highs'. But you know what I mean. Carefully, carefully I eased on my pair of open-toe tights, wincing with every tug. Mission accomplished!
Every woman reading this knows already what happened next. That's right. A quick trip to the loo before leaving for the service, and BANG! Tights exploded as I pulled them back up. Waistband sheered off. Beyond remedy. Buggeration! Late bell already chiming. Raced back upstairs, tossed tights drawer contents on bed, forked about, found a pair of 'sandal toe' hold-ups. Hold-ups are quicker to put on in a hurry, I find. First one on, no problem. Second leg... Buggeration! Historic ladder up the back which I hadn't spotted. Bells now fallen silent. Raced out of house, with my big pink umbrella, reasoning that if anyone spends the Eucharist scrutinising the back of Mrs Chancellor's right leg, they have bigger problems than I do.
The first hymn had started, so I had to wait at the West End while the procession went past. I pretended not to notice the lay vicars smirking. It's all very well for them: their cassocks cover any ladders in their stockings.