I really dislike shopping, as I’ve gotten older, with much less disposable income and a much more disposable waistline than I had when I was 16 I’ve found it to be a stressful, depressing experience. However, one thing I am a big fan of is not learning from past mistakes, so every once in a while I decide to venture to the shops, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, optimistic that this time those high-waisted disco pants are going to look fantastic on my fat arse and tree-trunk thighs.
Suffice to say, on more than one occasion this has left me on the floor in the changing rooms of topshop, attempting to squeeze my way out of a body-con dress I was positive would look just fabulous on me. The other day was no exception, attempting to relive my glory days by trying on a size 8 mini dress left me red-faced and sweating for at least ten minutes in urban outfitters, never again. From now on I will only wear pyjamas, just pyjamas with a few funky accessories: regret, jealousy and side of self-loathing.