Support? Hmmmmm

Bought some support tights the other day. Exactly what support is it that they think they’re giving? I stood in M&S for some time contemplating the merits of an invisible waistband over a comfortable cotton waistband. A shiny leg versus a matt leg. A reinforced toe versus a cotton gusset.

In the end I went for comfortable waistband (though wasn’t sure this was sensible – you know how support tights can be – whilst sucking you in around the bottom, thigh and stomach area (they claim), they can create nasty bulging rolls of unsightliness above the waistband), shiny legs with reinforced toe AND cotton gusset. Two pairs, six pounds, thank you very much.

The reason I bought said tights was to hold myself in while swanning about in one of my new(ish) asda dresses (think the other two are heading for returnsville for a number of reasons not to be discussed here due to time restrictions) for a friend’s birthday doo.

So on go the tights. And much further getting-ready-sort-of-faffing ensues – including packing of bags and having tantrums at the mirror. As said tantrum fades, I realise that the train is leaving in 17 minutes, I need the loo, I live 18 minutes away, I still need to buy a ticket and I am wearing shoes, not trainers. A complex combination of problems, the solution to which included much frantic running, sweating (erm, glowing if you please…) and cursing.

Said solution however ends up with “support tights” working their way down my legs, inch by inch, cotton gusset hanging around between my thighs and my knees, me hoiking them up in ultra-feminine manner as I trot over the railway bridge in my gold shoes, reddening face, moistening armpits and with a right glow on.

This lowering of tights continues all evening, accompanied by ladylike hoiking. Surely, if they’re supposed to be pulling in my thighs, bum and tum, they should be tight enough to keep themselves up without my support? Here is becomes clear why they are named “support tights” – because they need my constant support to keep them up.

Sodding things.

p.s. I did make the train. Although with a slightly dishevelled look about me and not a minute to spare.