"Untightled"

Before I begin, please allow me to make one thing clear. I absolutely do not need to wear “control” tights. Really. I bought this particular pair of tights for one reason and one reason only: they were shiny. That’s right. They were the only shiny pair of tights in the shop. So, are we clear on that? Good.

It’s rare that I even wear tights; the winters are so short here in Cyprus and, when visiting the UK at this time of year, I tend to pack trousers, jeans and boots rather than the sort of outfits that require the donning of tights. However, last Saturday was LBD-Day (well, night actually) and appropriate hosiery was called for; we were off to a posh “do” in a four star hotel in Paphos. So, on went the lovely, shiny, new tights.

All started well enough. Some friends called at our house for “pre-do” drinks and, as I was standing there, chatting away, I started to feel the waistband of the tights slowly but surely inching downwards. This was nothing I couldn’t handle. I simply used a little stealth and surreptitiously adjusted them. No problem.

When we arrived at the hotel we were ushered into the cocktail lounge where the customary pre-dinner mingling was to take place. I found myself in conversation with a very nice lady so didn’t end up mingling that much; I was having quite a pleasant time talking to her and, as we were tucked away in a corner, I could keep my clothing under control without drawing attention to myself. That’s right; the tights were on the move again and suddenly seemed more determined than ever to head south. In fact, the whole situation was beginning to turn into a bit of a battle; but I was not going to surrender to hostile hosiery. In any case, I wasn’t too worried; soon I’d be sitting down at the dining table where I could deal with my dilemma more discreetly.

Just for good measure, before heading in to dine, I made a quick detour into the Ladies for a serious hosiery hike. I gave the tights an almighty tug upwards, confidently made my entrance into the dining room, seated myself at the table and prepared to fill my face with four courses.

The starter was amazing: avocado and mozzarella drizzled with something delicious and presented with a small breadstick balanced elegantly alongside. The tights? Static (at this stage).

Soup came next. To be honest it was slightly too salty for my taste so I decided to leave it, thereby making extra space for the next two courses.

The main course was fish which was fantastic but filling so I wasn’t sorry I’d skipped the soup especially as the dessert was to die for! It came in a cocktail glass, half full (I’m an optimist, obviously) of creamy chocolate mousse topped with two profiteroles. These were no ordinary profiteroles. Oh no. These were profiteroles coated with sugary toffee; not unlike the coating on a toffee apple actually, and the whole thing was served with an artistic sugary toffee garnish. I scoffed the lot.

Coffee was on offer; however, by this stage I was feeling stuffed but smug; sitting slightly slumped in my seat with the ghastly garment gripping my girth rather more firmly than before, which was understandable considering what I had just consumed and also quite comforting; I had won the war. I had taken control of the tights rather than the tights taking control of me. But I hadn’t bargained for what happened next…

…I sat up and leaned forward to pick up my wine glass in order to silently toast my victory. It was as this point that both the tights and I lost control and my tummy took over. Whereas before the tights had been Ninja-like, slowly creeping down by degrees, this was decidedly different. I felt my lower stomach expand and, entirely of its own accord and without any instructions whatsoever from my brain, literally roll the waistband of the tights firmly downwards!

Things couldn’t get any worse, right? Wrong. It was disco time! Now, I haven’t had a disaster on a dance floor since I lost control of a boob tube some time during the nineteen eighties (why do so many items of my clothing seem to head in the same direction?) and it had taken me a long time to get over the trauma. I wanted to trip the light fantastic not grapple with elastic and there are only so many adjustments to one’s clothing that can be disguised as innovative dance moves. There was only one thing for it; I headed back to the Ladies, removed the offending articles and banished them to the bin.

The war was finally over but there was no real winner. I had tried and failed in the fight against my tights and the tights too had lost their struggle and surrendered. In the end my tummy was triumphant but I must admit to being rather put off pantyhose. In fact, I think I might even go so far as saying I am now, most definitely, anti-hose!