I hate wearing clothes, especially winter clothes – don’t you? Not that I’m by any means an exhibitionist; I simply hate the feeling of being cluttered up with big warm clothes (or, even worse, tight warm clothes). I’m happiest in a pair of shorts, skimpy sun-top and a nice tan – preferably, in the sunshine. The trouble is that I’m in England in the autumn.

At around twelve-thirty this afternoon I went into my bedroom in order to find an outfit to wear for a family gathering – a birthday party for my cousin, John, and his girlfriend, Annette (we are all the same age, but, sorry, we’re keeping tight-lipped about the exact figure). Talking about figures, one really does want to make a reasonable impression even though they are only family; you don’t wish to appear to have gone downhill too much in the months since you last saw your cousins, even if you have (it’s so hard to keep up the rigorous exercise in the colder weather!). In my mind’s eye I fancied I might wear slimming black trousers, a red top and a new cardigan in cream with black spots – that would go with my new red dufflecoat; it’s funny how awful it looked when I tried it on (not the coat – I didn’t get that far). Moments later I surveyed my reflection in the mirror: my white stretchy jeans looked plain odd somehow, though they were a hit last time I wore them. My favourite harem trousers were impossible – you can’t wear trainers or black ankle boots with harem trousers, or with cut-off jumpsuits…

By five past one, half the contents of my wardrobe were piled high on the bed. Chris called down from upstairs:

“Ten minutes and we must be off, Darling!”

“Okay!” I called back, which was quite optimistic because, at the time, I was stood only in my bra and pants.

In desperation, I tried to remember any combination that I used to look good in, and which still fitted. It seemed that I was in pink mode after all (how silly of me to have mistakenly thought it was red) and I settled for a pale pink Australian top, matching pink puff-sleeved cardigan and a pink jacket; on the bottom I wore black jeans and black boots, which reminds me… as if I need to be reminded…

Yesterday morning was yet another difficult time for me in the matter of what to wear. Luckily, or so I thought, I had found an old pair of black hipster jeans at the back of the bottom drawer; they were nice boot-leg jeans (rather than skinny “drainpipes”, which look good only on skinny drainpipes) and I reckoned they would go well with my red coat. I tried on the hipsters and found that they were a tad tight at the top and a bit of fat poked over the band – like a muffin top! I took them off and observed the dart at the back. In a jiffy I had them back on, minus the dart, and with three extra inches there was no sign of any muffin spilling over the top. I yanked them up as high as they would go, put on my coat and ran out to the car where Chris had been waiting.

It’s a good job I wore that dufflecoat. I found I could easily slip my hand inside every few seconds to pull up my trousers, which, indeed, I had to do every few seconds, but only whilst I was standing or walking (which is mostly what you have to do when you go shopping). I rather wished that my new coat was not such a bright colour; it’s hard to yank and pull inconspicuously at one’s trousers when one is wearing a red coat (or orange, if you share the same opinion as Chris).

I was going through some items in a sale rack at Tesco’s when it happened first; with my mind and hands fully occupied looking for bargains, I momentarily forgot there was a need to tug every three seconds, and before I knew it my hipsters had fallen off my hips and were half-way down my thighs. Fortunately, my dufflecoat is knee-length, and if anyone had noticed anything strange about my troosers, it would have been simply that they were rather more concertinaed than is usual for boot-legs. As inconspicuously as possible (wearing a bright red dufflecoat) I sidled over to a more secluded area, by the changing rooms door, and gave a deft yank using both hands.

The next time my troosers came down was when we brought all the shopping in from the car – two minutes with both hands full – but on that occasion I let them fall, concertina-style, all the way to the floor. I stepped out of them, leaving them like a relic from body-snatching aliens.

“That’s a good idea,” Chris said, “I think I’ll get changed into something more comfortable too!”

Chris, too, hates clothes.

And here are the lyrics to the Andy Stewart song from the early sixties…

Yesterday I felt rather chuffed to receive a Facebook friend request from a man I didn’t know.

“I must be really popular now!” I thought. “But I’d better check him out before accepting him willy-nilly.”

So I clicked on his profile and, to my surprise, the invitation was from my thirteen-year-old nephew, James – he had used his middle name as his surname (perhaps for anonymity); however, he had no qualms about showing a lovely photograph of himself, therefore I recognised him instantly (I should hope so!). In truth, I felt even more chuffed to realise it was our James rather than a mystery man (although the prospect had been quite exciting for a short while).

“I can’t be such an old fogey if James wants me to be a Facebook friend,” I reasoned happily to myself.

I liked James’ entry in the now customary fashion (in order that he might feel as popular as he had made me feel) and I even sent him a nice photograph of him, taken in the summer when he was still just a kid of twelve.

A little later I visited my nephew’s site again to see if there had been any reaction from James (I hoped he didn’t hate that photo, which I had aired for all the world to see.) It was thrilling to see that one of his friends had indeed liked the photograph.

“Nice one James,” a nice young chap called Josh had written.

I decided to click on Josh’s profile to see what James’ friends are like. He had to be a good egg if he had made such a pleasant and normal comment on Facebook. I wasn’t disappointed. His profile photograph showed a normal kid wearing glasses, which made him look like Brains from Thunderbirds. He is at “Station level 7” (whatever that may be, but it is undoubtedly something of an achievement) and he scored an impressive 1,633 on Kawai Run (must find out what that is so I can like it). Best of all, Josh had put a “selfie” on his site; it was entitled, “Got me Morphsuits on”.

Now until this revelation I had no idea what a morphsuit is (and I still wasn’t sure even after seeing the photograph), however, what I did notice was a certain similarity between Josh’s morphsuit and my convict-style bedtime onesie (as you may remember from previous blogs, the crotch comes down almost to my knees). And for your edification I shall not only add photographs of various morphsuits (including my own and Josh’s) but also an excerpt from an interesting article on the subject in “The Observer” and an extract from a question and answer forum.

Whats the point of a morphsuit?

1 answer

Best Answer:  The point of a “morphsuit” (see link, below), is anonymity.

People who are usually timid or shy all of a sudden feel liberated and free to behave in a totally different, kooky manner when they are, well, disguised like that.

Good luck!… ☺

What Morph should I get?

Best Answer: I would either get a tux or a black one… I got a black one for halloween. : ):

Another question:

What is the point of Morphsuits?

Best Answer: fashion:

The men behind the morphsuit

By Tom Lamont

• The Observer,Sunday 5 August 2012

It started out as a hilarious prank at a stag-do and has morphed into a million-pound fancy-dress phenomenon. Tom Lamont meets the three Scotsmen who have given the world the mighty morphsuit.

Shape of things to come: revellers cover up in a selection of morphsuits at the T in the Park festival in Kinross. Photograph: Ross Gilmore for the Observer

Not long ago, three friends from Scotland went out for drinks wearing brightly coloured costumes from Japan. It would prove a pivotal night of fancy dress.

The trio – brothers Ali and Fraser Smeaton, and their friend from Edinburgh University, Gregor Lawson – were skiing in Canada. They decided to hit the local bars wearing “zentai suits” – skin-tight Japanese leotards that covered them from head to toe. It was an idea Gregor had pinched from a stag weekend, where one of the attendees, newly back from Asia, had shown up in a vivid blue zentai. “Everyone wanted to buy him a drink,” recalls Gregor. “I’d never seen anything like it.”

In Canada, dressed up in zentai suits of their own, the trio were likewise admired. “The resort shut down, people were stopping us in the street,” says Ali Smeaton. The friends wondered if they’d stumbled on a way to make some cash – perhaps fund next year’s ski trip. “A bit of pocket money,” says Ali. “We’d take something that existed, give it a name, change certain physical elements, bring it to the masses.” One modification they decided on right away was that their version would be made of something more see-through. They’d been walking around virtually blind.

That was in early 2009. Today, the morphsuit (as the trio boozily agreed to name their product) is a multimillion-pound concern. A zip-up costume made of polyester and Lycra, all-enveloping so that the wearer looks like a featureless mannequin, the morphsuit has become commonplace at sporting events and stag nights, festivals and parties. It has also made unusual incursions into the world beyond. The day after bin Laden was killed, in 2011, Al Jazeera carried a photograph of an anonymous American celebrating outside the White House in a morphsuit patterned with stars and stripes.