Glamour force ten


Ok, we know that shopping for unknown quantities on the interweb holds some pretty spicy potential. Unless it’s a book or an exact replica of something you’ve already got, it carries with it rich possibilities for rage, bewilderment, gloom or comedy. Holiday lets – they’re a bit exciting. Dating – that carries us more into bewilderment (claims to be 45 yet describes himself as ‘young at heart’. Next!). Clothes have to be the riskiest. And yet I threw myself in at the deep end (ho-ho-snort) not 10 minutes ago by ordering a swimsuit, in a style I’ve never worn, from a company I’d never heard of. What could go wrong?

Thing is, I’m off to Ibiza again this summer with cuz, mates and goddaughter, and frankly, the displays of tiny-bikini-over-surgeon-battle-scarred bodies and peculiar grapefruit breasts has made me rethink my look. I’m redhead pale, reasonably upholstered and ageing just as fast as a sugar-based diet will allow. Am I going to spronce about in a bikini? Am I eff. Am I going to allow the Mediterranean sun to break over an arse that’s never seen daylight? Not unless I want to blind my neighbours. So on the style advice of a gentleman friend (who seems surprisingly well informed on ladies’ beachwear) I have purchased a 1940s style costume. No point being shy and pretending to blend in with a one-piece. I’m going all-out Esther Williams, and sod every smug, melanin-producing Ooh-I-just-love-the-sun gobshite. I shall be under a parasol painting my toenails and writing postcards. Chin chin!


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