Wednesday, 11 March 2009

Don't Come Around My House After Dark

Wednesday, 11 March 2009
Some say that it was stitched together in the ninth circle of hell, by a bitter tailor cursed to eternal damnation.

And that its power is so violent it can deflate even the most severe of erections from 2 blocks away.

Some say they have heard it to be known as ‘The Passion Killer’.

I call it The Smock.


The Smock is sexless, it is shapeless, it is unflattering, it is unfashionable. Checking the label, it is 100% combed cotton and made in Brazil. Imagine the most dreadfully baggy of sweatshirts... extended. Gloriously unstylish, it’s basically a really long black sweatshirt which goes right to the floor, with two pockets in the front. Some weeks ago, my Mum happened upon The Smock in a department store in Canada. She phoned me on her mobile phone from the shop and said, “I think I may have found you something to wear while you’re pregnant, “ and described the fleece monstrosity that was coat-hangered before her. I won’t post a picture; it would surely be swiftly removed from the Internet on grounds of ‘offensive content’ for causing the human form to be brought into disrepute.


Now – a point of clarification... I’m not what you would necessarily call a ‘girly’ kind of girl. Don’t get me wrong; I have standards most of the time; for example, I won’t leave the house (under any circumstances) without mascara and a bit of lip gloss. Even if I was just rolling out of bed to go to the newsagents on a Sunday morning. Even if I was HUNGOVER rolling out of bed to go to the newsagents on a Sunday morning. I’m much more at home in a nice, worn-in pair of jeans and my Chuck Taylors than stilettos and fishnets, and I have more than once looked on in equal disbelief at girls who either make no effort whatsoever and also their higher maintenance counterparts.

Make no mistake; I like getting occasionally dressed up to the nines as much as the next girl, and I do enjoy looking nice for my husband, but whoooooooooooooooa baby... do I ever love the nightly ritual of getting in from work, hanging up my work clothes and putting on my ‘comfies’.

I’m proud to say that The Smock has been very quickly promoted up the ranks to ‘Comfy-In-Chief’ status. All my other lovely pyjama bottoms and preferred t-shirt combinations have been thoughtlessly strewn aside to make way for it.

It’s a love affair, it really is. All pregnant ladies: get thee to the Smockery. You won’t regret it.

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