Aye, an' there's the rub

As I have documente before - with more candour than sense maybe - I am occasionally afflicted with 'chub rub'.  Oh yes, I have all the glamour.

So I bought a pair of anti-chub rub things - a little like cycling shorts (and yes, I'm aware of the irony) crossed with some sort of surgical bandaging -  that you wear under skirts.  They are grim things indeed; souless, joyless and aggressively ugly.  Now, I don't need to be told of my singular lack of physical charms.  Indeed, I would rather not be reminded on a daily basis (other than in reflective surfaces which I shun like a vampire afraid of betrayal).  So I decided to try something called bandelettes.  They look a bit like the top of hold ups, without actually holding anything up - lacy bands.  They're reasonably attractive - possibly not so much that I'd wear them sticking out of a pair of short shorts, like in their advertising.  But then, if I could wear short shorts, we wouldn't be here in the first place.  You measure your thigh and order from a company called Mish - who, I must say were super-quick with delivery.  They come in black, white and nude and I ordered nude - although anyone who has met me will know that nude on me is almost certainly white.

Today was the inaugral wearing.  I tried them on yesterday and they felt pretty good - snug without being like a tourniquet or that weird thing the guy wears round his thigh in Angels and Demons.  Airy too - which after surgical bandage/cycle shorts, was rather nice even if I did keep nervously checking my skirt was still in situ.  They do roll down a bit at the back on one side - presumably like everyone has one breast slightly larger than the other, there is also a larger buttock.  Or that may just be me.  I was a bit anxious about walking/walking upstairs but a commute and a short trip out at lunchtime and they were still in place.  All was well until in the middle of Victoria station the left one started to descend.  The more I tried to surreptiously tug at it, the more it tried to roll up.  I shuffled into W H Smiths and hid in a corner, trying adjust them.  At which point, it rolled decisively up into a band, shot down my leg and pinged off across the shop floor.  I fielded it with a speed that any professional baseball player would envy and shot out of the shop.  Now, of course, I had lace on one side and naked, unconfined flesh on the other - a recipe for rubbing if ever I heard one.

I put them back on for a trip to Homebase (on the basis that no-one would turn a hair if they pinged off in synchronicity) and they stayed on so it's possible that I had not adjusted them properly.  Tomorrow I will try again.  It's equally possible that they will choose the most inopportune time to go free-range then.  It's anyone's guess.  But faint heart never won fair, unblemished thigh.