BIG pants are big business. Or so it seems.
Everywhere you look, women seem to be shunning the cheese-wire type thongs in favour of donning the larger than life, Harvest festivals (as in ‘all is safely gathered in’) as preferred by Bridget Jones.
Most of them are scary-looking creations (not to say unflattering) but they claim to give us the shape we dream about - without having to sacrifice the Cadbury’s creme eggs or (in my case) the daily wedges of over-ripe Camembert.
They can trim and slim chubby tummies, chunky thighs, larger-than-life waistlines and burgeoning buttocks.
Years ago, I suspect, we would all have been slipping into our Playtex 18-hour girdles and before that, been laced into breath-constricting corsets.
Shapewear is surely the modern-day equivalent (but without the flesh-cutting whale-bone) and what’s more, it’s become acceptable not only to wear it, but to admit you’re wearing it to boot.
It’s fine to tell all and sundry that you’ve got your control briefs on and therefore all is right with the world - heck I’ve even seen women lift up their outerwear to reveal their bondage-like underwear with pride.
Yes, we are wearing our big knickers like a badge of honour.
And as much I embrace the age of shape-enhancing, I do admit to having concerns about the old bus scenario (as in getting knocked down by one.) Imagine the indignity of being sprawled out in King Cross Street, the largesse of your voluminous under-pinnings on view to the entire world? The humiliation doesn’t bear thinking about.