Don’t you wish your boyfriend was large like me?

Like Margaret Thatcher before me I am a big fan of Marks and Spencer when it comes to underwear. It’s especially gratifying when one finds the perfect pant and I’ve tried buying up all stocks of a particular style as they are the Goldilocks of undergarments.

Sadly, however, it seems this line has been discontinued and I was recently forced to opt for what looked like the next best thing. Well, life is full of such little setbacks but, somewhat thrown by this, I managed to pick up the wrong size.

This is where M&S comes into its own, of course. Not just in their returns policy, but in their overall approach to customer service. I find that this, like the need for comfy nether-regions, is increasingly important as one approaches 49 plus 1(0).

And so I trundle back to the store where I am greeted by a nice, smiley M&S lady, who asks if she can help. I explain my mistake and, of course, she can help. Not only that, but she offers to pop over to the shelves and get the replacement pack for me. Splendid.

“Is it just the one size smaller you need?” she asks, as she turns to depart. Goodness, no! One size larger, at least, I tell her. Whereupon nice, smiley M&S lady argues with me, telling me that there is no way I look like I need a size up.

I think I love nice, smiley M&S lady a little bit.

Anyway, I am sitting here, typing this, on National Underwear Day wearing a pair of new pants. They’re not quite right, but I fear that is more to do with the size of my arse, rather than the size of the garment.

And that’s a bit pants.



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