Mother knows best

The recent trip to Norwich gave me the opportunity to go shopping with my mother, something I've not done for years. (Well, for clothes. We always go food shopping together.) The excursion kicked off with me rapidly reverting to sulky teenager-hood.

"Come on then, let's try to find you a nice dress."
"I don't want a nice dress. I look awful in dresses. Why can't I get some trainers instead?"
"But you've got a lovely figure! You should show it off!"
"Don't say that!"
"What?"
"About my figure! It's embarrassing! And nothing's going to fit. I'm so fat. And I don't have any friends and no one will ever like me."

And so on.

I'm surprised she didn't ditch me after an abortive visit to Monsoon, but -- just as she has done for the past 35 years -- she persisted and we hit paydirt in House of Fraser. After criticizing half a dozen frocks, we finally found two that I agreed, with a marked lack of enthusiasm, to try on. And I liked them. And they were both a size 10 (UK size 10, US size 6)! Now, I'm not sure if this is the result of Britain being in the grip of an obesity crisis (TM The Daily Mail), but I felt pretty damn good in the changing rooms -- positively svelte! -- unlike in my gym's changing room, where I feel like a stumpy, albino dwarf. I bought both dresses, have worn one of them to work (and got some compliments), so will obviously have to go shopping with Mama Dumpling more frequently. I'm sure she'll be delighted to hear that.