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…