Primark, tough teens and wild eyed nanna's.

Shopping can be hell.

On a business trip to London recently my colleague and I decided, on a free afternoon, to pop off to Primark on Oxford street. She wanted to pick up some cheap vest tops and stocking fillers (yes – already!) and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.

Well. Let’s just say I’d rather eat bark than ever set foot in Primark again.

For those of you who have never had the pleasure - it basically is a big shop full of cheap crap (that looks cheap, feels cheap, probably dissolves on its first wash) piled up in every square inch of available space where it is pawed over by wild eyed shoppers – in a near frenzy at the thought of a £2 t shirt. The queue to the dressing rooms is roughly three miles long, but the intrepid Primark shopper cares not for queuing – it cuts into bargain time! They simply whip off their keds in the middle of the store and get changed in public. A few of the more modest Primark shoppers gather a gaggle of friends or relatives around them while they strip (a type of human shield) but some just GO FOR IT. It’s quite disconcerting spotting brassieres and underoos in the public domain. It’s not a flipping beach for Christ sakes.

Of course, being in the raw in a busy shop is frowned upon and, to be fair, the security guards were doing their best to keep everyone clothed. But the shoppers are out of control. Not only did I witness many barely contained bosoms and bums, but I was also in fear of losing my life. I was bashed out of the way by pregnant women, bowled over by sweet looking school girls. Knocked into next week by nana’s on a search for bed linen. I couldn’t bear it. Everyone’s feverish excitement started to affect me - I felt that I must be missing out on a bargain and if I didn’t get shopping quick smart I’d regret it forever. I grabbed a shopping basket and headed into the melee where I proceeded to pick up things I didn’t need, want, or even particularly LIKE simply cos they were so cheap. Will I ever wear a pale pink sequined snood? I think not. What about a pair of bright orange underoos that I’m not entirely sure will even fit me (the sizing structure is 8 - 10, followed by 12 - 14. I am a 10 - 12. Do I go for potentially baggy undies, or for ones that may cut off the flow of blood to my nether regions?). I also grabbed a pair of pyjamas for £5, a roll of wrapping paper, a pack of face wipes and a lip gloss. Then I wigged out completely.

I was trying to make my way to the tills when a dirty little tart with a face like a smashed crab knocked me flying into a rail of (£2!) hats. ‘Excuse me!’ I said, in my best mum voice. ‘Can you please watch where you’re going?’.

‘Watch yourself woman’ she replied. Watch yourself woman? For the love of God. I tried desperately to think of a witty come back, but my brain was too addled by the proceedings of the previous 30 mins. ‘You watch yourself, little girl’ I snarled. She turned towards her equally attractive mates – no doubt looking for back up. This was too much. I was about to get punched out (or maybe stabbed – we were close to the homeware section with the (£4!) knives) by a teenager in Primark. As she grabbed her mates and stomped back towards me I flung my basket on the floor and fled – passing two half naked nana’s on the way out.
I shan’t go back again.

My muffin top has become a baker's dozen

Went to the beach on the weekend.

Good God.

The last time I wore a swimsuit for any extended period of time was in Crete with the Pond family. We were there for two weeks and I was bikini-clad every day. I walked around in my bikini. I swam in my bikini. I even jogged in it once (to the toilet – was v close to wetting self and refused to just ‘pee in the sea’). I was happy in my bikini. More importantly, I was comfortable. Not so comfortable that I would do any major strolls without a sarong at the ready, and certainly not so comfortable as to wobble my way through a game of beach volleyball, but I felt respectable. Healthy. Reasonably toned.

This weekend I grabbed my favourite bikini which had not seen an outing since Crete and attempted to shoehorn myself into it.

Top half was ok – needed a bit of a jiggle and a wiggle to secure the gals in place, but, once they were trapped, I looked perfectly presentable from the belly button up.

Then came the bikini bottoms.

They are hipster bottoms and they have always been a tad snug, even in Crete . I remember on that very holiday pinching a teeny tiny bit of skin at hip level and complaining about my muffin top.

Well. If THAT was a muffin, I now am the proud owner of a baker’s dozen. There was a distinct ROLL over the top of my bottoms. It need not be pinched – I could actually GRAB a large chunk of myself. (And so could Simon, as he happily demonstrated – helping himself to a hearty handful whilst I was assisting our niece in the digging of a – very impressive - hole. He ended up with a shovel up the side of his head).

This is my own fault. I have spent the summer (grim though it was) in a giddy haze of dinners, bbq’s and carousing. Well, NO MORE! The realisation that my Turkish holiday is only 32 sleeps away has me apoplectic with fear. When I imagine the holiday in my head, I always look fabulous. I picture myself in my new denim skirt (pre-summer purchase - good God, will it still fit me??) and bikini top, looking trim and terrific. If I don’t curb my love affair with cider and cheese pronto, I may well be waddling along the Turkish beaches swathed in a kaftan with my new skirt working outside its remit as, perhaps, a hat.

So I’ve decided I’m not drinking in September. Nor am I indulging in any crap. I’m going to be as pure as the driven snow (not snow that has actually been driven ON, as this tends to be quite disgusting. As pure as the stuff that actually is falling from the sky). I have only 32 days to fit back into my bikini bottoms. I’m too terrified to try my skirt on again.

I have several social engagements this month that I will now be attending sober. Come along and enjoy the ride!

* Join me as I say no to free glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.
* Laugh as I ask for ‘orange juice please’ at the wine bar.
* Delight in my discomfort as I socialise with acquaintances while sipping on a soda water.
* Gag as I eat an egg white omelette for breakfast!

I will keep you in the loop. Perhaps I should post a picture of my baker’s dozen on here? Do I dare????

Stay tuned...