I'm still living with post-Christmas Belgian chocs fest/feast/binge consequences.

And I may be a little more curvy than I would like.

So when a 'waister' caught my eye in the local department store I thought Friday dinner time would be an ideal time to try it on.

On the label a fifties-style nymphette smiled at me with a coquettish twinkle in her eye. 'Hum,' thought my naive little optimism, 'our waist could look that nipped in.'

And with that I shipped off to the changing rooms.

What optimism had forgotten was, unlike pictured fifties nymphette, I have hips. I am, actually, 1950s shaped. And so getting in to this contraption took some time and effort and was about as uplifting and glamorous an experience as being slapped about with a wet fish.

Then there was getting out. There was a moment when I didn't think I was going to make it. I tried not to panic/laugh/cry/ and I was eventually free, if a little out of breath.

But if all that were not depressing enough the changing rooms were floodlit by the most unflattering spotlights on earth which showed up every fat cell sitting on the back of my thighs.

It could have been worse. I've pondered the ignomony of what could have happened - having to be cut free? *shudders*

Someone pass me a chocolate, please.