Being an expat means having a lot of ex’s in your life. I’m an ex-boss, an ex-therapist, an ex-Pilates teacher, an ex-runner (might be pushing it a bit), an ex-walker of the Derbyshire Peak District. All these ex’s I accept as part of the life changing adventure that happens to an expatriate. What I didn’t expect, and what I’m struggling to deal with as part of my life changing adventure is the big knickers.
This event is not news to me. I’ve already had advanced knowledge that I might just be included in photographs that could be around for eternity.
With this advanced knowledge in mind, while, feasting on bittenballen, I drew up a plan. Mr Sunshine and I bought a cross-trainer, half an hour a day should see me right I thought, before turning to the latest free Kindle book. I filled the house with lettuce and bananas, Mr Sunshine stocked up on wine and family sized Tiramisu. I can easy do it in six months I thought after Christmas, I’ll start tomorrow!
I needed another plan. My usual (and preferred attire) is jeans and T shirts, if forced I’ll squeeze into something black. Neither of these looks I assumed would work as a wedding outfit for the mother of the groom. So, gathering my remaining shreds of dignity, I set sail for the shops; wisely leaving my glasses at home. Unfortunately none of the shops in Breda stock weight or age shaving garments.
With my head hanging I turned towards the underwear department in V & D. Disappointingly, the shop assistants looked not in the least bit shocked as I harvested an array of skin coloured XL underwear from the section deludingly called Glamour wear. I bought the biggest! It’s uncomfortable, will double as thermals in the Dutch winter, for some reason best not thought about it’s crotch-less, but it works.
My plan was coming together.
All that was needed was the highest pair of shoes I could conceivably stand up in.
|I can't believe I'm swapping my trainers with bespoke dropped arch support for these!|