The first rule of Tight Club

Feeling a bit glum in a nondescript, non-specific way, so I thought I would write something quick about something jolly. But then I couldn’t think of anything jolly, I could only think of things that were a bit rubbish – like the tights I am wearing today.

I am a big fan of a nude tight. My legs are always either stubbly, covered in bruises, or mottled with bluish-white patches – often all three. Good nude tights pull things together and make me feel like an actual adult woman.

The best nude tights in the world are by Autograph at M&S. They are just the right combination of matte and silky, and they have a pleasingly firm gusset area, and I can pull them right up underneath my bra so that they sausage me in on days when I’m looking a bit Baby On Board. I first bought them because Kirstie Alsopp tweeted that they were the best tights ever, and she was not wrong. Unfortunately, they are also the least hardy tights imaginable, and I am staggeringly clumsy, so I always put a ladder in them before they’ve made it to their second wash. Kirstie Alsopp seems like a more put-together person than me, so maybe she manages to get more than one-and-a-quarter wears out of her Autograph tights before she has to throw them away. Or maybe all those Location Location Locations mean she can afford to spend £6.50 a day on tights. She probably bathes in tights. But I am not Kirstie Alsopp!

(Or am I?)

(No, I’m not.)

And so, even knowing that all other tights are bound to disappoint, I still buy them. And today’s tights are a particularly miserable example of the Disappointing Nude Tights genre.

They are the colour of sallow-skinned Mary from The Secret Garden (before all the skipping and secrets and sneaking around with rosy-cheeked Dickon).

The weave on them is too broad. It is as if they wish they were made of corduroy.

No amount of pulling them up keeps them in place for more than 5 minutes. They are determined to scooch down around my bum, causing a kind of triple-muffintop along the way.

And they’re not even sturdy! They developed a crotch ladder by lunchtime!

In summary: THE WORST.

When I am Queen of the World, I will pay for Phil Spencer to deliver me seven new pairs of Autograph tights each Sunday evening for the rest of my life. And after I have worn them, I will donate them to get stuffed with hair for clearing up oil spills and rescuing sea birds. I will be benevolent and well-loved and people will write ballads to my perfectly bestockinged legs for decades to come. AND PEACE SHALL REIGN.

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