The Wrong Trousers

You'd think it would be easy - two women, one podcast launch and an agreement to go all matchy-matchy for the photos. Whoa, think again!

We'd ordered Hear Me Roar t-shirts online and, feeling very pleased with ourselves, went shopping for trousers to match. This involved wandering around approximately 56,192 shops with our phones out, comparing the colour of the logo in the photo with the colour of many pairs of pantaloons that we wouldn't have normally bought in a million years but upon which we were willing to compromise because it was 4pm and we had lost the will to live.

Marks and Spencer eventually provided. Dusky pink would have to do. They were baggy and calf length, perfect for wearing with the fitted white t-shirts we'd bought. All was well and we trundled off to our respective homes armed with the right trousers (and bags of all the other pretty things we'd "collected" along the way).

Scroll forward a week. Two women, one postman and a few excited squeals. The t-shirts had arrived. We ripped into that package like it contained Tom Hardy and two large margaritas. We held the t-shirts up. We wondered...hmm...they looked a touch small. And then came the trying on.

Now, I don't know whether you've ever tried to force your left tit into a condom, but these t-shirts were the next best thing. We gamely squeezed all our wobbly bits into these second skins and then stood before the mirror.

"My spare tyre is cracking," said Yvonne, grabbing a handful and giving it a proud jiggle.

"I look like I ate Tom Hardy," said Marie, rubbing her belly.

We agreed we were glad she didn't say "swallowed Tom Hardy" because that would have been a very different conversation.

"It's no use," we wailed, crashing through the living room door to demand that Mr V do something about this.

Mr V protested that he had already been doing something about this. He had been quietly hiding behind closed doors and refusing to become involved, thank you very much! However, as his inner sanctum was now awash with menopausal outrage, he suggested buying new t-shirts. In fact, he was happy to order new t-shirts from a sensible place that did sensible sizes (as opposed to shops that demoralise perfectly nice ladies by offering XXL t-shirts that were clearly made in the Hadron Collider). He duly pressed some important buttons and announced that in a few days, we would be the proud owners of two baggy t-shirts which would cover all the lumpy bits.

For approximately thirty seconds, we were happy. And then it dawned on us. Oh no! These would never go with the trousers we'd bought. We would need the right trousers. We would need skinny trousers. We would need to scour the shops again for something that didn't make one of us look too fat, too thin, too whatever. We no longer have smooth, twenty-something year old skin that can withstand light-coloured leggings. Noooo. Our fifty-something year old backsides look like we spent the last few decades sitting on a bag of Rice Crispies. Dusky pink was not our friend when it came to leggings. Phew. It's hard being us.

The good news is that we found some sporty leggingy type things that fit the bill. The bad news is that the t-shirts haven't arrived yet. The even worse news, from Mr V's point of view, is that our mission to go matchy-matchy has now cost twice as much as planned, and his inner sanctum (which should be filled with football on the telly) is now awash with cries of "why didn't you get the express delivery?!"

We are nothing if not dramatic. It's a launch on BBC radio, so who's going to see us? Turn up, just be ourselves, take the pics for social media another day. But like any woman who can barely breath in the

layers of scaffolding beneath the dress she wears so "effortlessly", we will go to great lengths to help ourselves feel wonderful on the day. Because that's what it comes down to, doesn't it? Feeling great; feeling special; feeling confident; no matter that you're paddling below like a duck with a Duracell up its backside. Which is why, even though we are laughing at our ridiculous selves for making such a fuss, we simply cannot wear the wrong trousers.

Marie & Yvonne wearing the wrong t-shirts