Summer. It tends to hit us before we’ve had time to even realise it, doesn’t it? Seems like only yesterday I was happily munching through a box of After Eight, basking in the safe warm glow of the Christmas tree. Now it’s June and London seems to be almost tropical (well it’s not raining at least). I’m due a confrontation with my worst enemy, oh yes- the bikini.
Now, don’t get me wrong- I love summer (who doesn’t?) Us Brits spend months on end in soggy, sub-zero temperatures, so any hint of sunlight and as a nation we throw off our clothes and flock outdoors to get our annual dose of vitamin D. I love the long days, the pub garden, the chaps that take their shirts off- the thought of stepping in out into a public place with nothing to cover my dignity but a couple of pieces of polyester however is enough to make me want to emigrate to the North Pole (where I can live happily ever after in my black opaques and jeans).
As it happens, I’m moving to Sydney where it’s going to be hot- all year round. A bikini is somewhat an essential item. The time has come; I need to go swimwear shopping. I venture to Oxford street with my housemate in tow- set on finding the perfect beach attire. There is, however, something rather demoralising about the whole bikini-buying experience. Pulling on a selection of stretchy, multi-coloured lycra over your underwear is never a good look. Honestly, it’s enough to make any self-assured girl reach for the Dairy Milk.
Changing rooms are never a good place to get reacquainted with your post-winter bod. You’re faced with not only your front but also your behind in numerous no-so-strategically positioned mirrors. Why do shops do this? Just when I’ve gathered enough courage to finally face the changing room I end up facing myself from every conceivable angle possible. Hello backside, I haven’t seen you since last summer, how’s it going back there? Now, do you prefer the tie-up polkadot briefs or the black low-rise frilly shorts?
I trail around TOPSHOP, H&M and Zara trying on countless styles, colours and fits, my housemate slowly but surely losing patience with every one. Unsuccessfully deciding on any of them, I decide to buy three different bikinis and head home. I’m down fifty quid but pleased that the ordeal is over for yet another year and confident that none of the purchases will ever see the light of day.
Oh well, a tan is overrated anyway.
Now, don’t get me wrong- I love summer (who doesn’t?) Us Brits spend months on end in soggy, sub-zero temperatures, so any hint of sunlight and as a nation we throw off our clothes and flock outdoors to get our annual dose of vitamin D. I love the long days, the pub garden, the chaps that take their shirts off- the thought of stepping in out into a public place with nothing to cover my dignity but a couple of pieces of polyester however is enough to make me want to emigrate to the North Pole (where I can live happily ever after in my black opaques and jeans).
As it happens, I’m moving to Sydney where it’s going to be hot- all year round. A bikini is somewhat an essential item. The time has come; I need to go swimwear shopping. I venture to Oxford street with my housemate in tow- set on finding the perfect beach attire. There is, however, something rather demoralising about the whole bikini-buying experience. Pulling on a selection of stretchy, multi-coloured lycra over your underwear is never a good look. Honestly, it’s enough to make any self-assured girl reach for the Dairy Milk.
Changing rooms are never a good place to get reacquainted with your post-winter bod. You’re faced with not only your front but also your behind in numerous no-so-strategically positioned mirrors. Why do shops do this? Just when I’ve gathered enough courage to finally face the changing room I end up facing myself from every conceivable angle possible. Hello backside, I haven’t seen you since last summer, how’s it going back there? Now, do you prefer the tie-up polkadot briefs or the black low-rise frilly shorts?
I trail around TOPSHOP, H&M and Zara trying on countless styles, colours and fits, my housemate slowly but surely losing patience with every one. Unsuccessfully deciding on any of them, I decide to buy three different bikinis and head home. I’m down fifty quid but pleased that the ordeal is over for yet another year and confident that none of the purchases will ever see the light of day.
Oh well, a tan is overrated anyway.
