The Problem with Primark Hold ups

Yesterday I was late into work. And for the first time since London got born, it wasn’t because TFL was having special funtime with a failing signal. It wasn’t because I woke up late. It wasn’t even because I forgot my wallet and had to go back to the house, although if anyone asks, that’s my official cover story.

The truth is, I had a wardrobe malfunction.

Ladies and gents, when you think of the words “hold ups”, you’ll either imagine bank robbers, that irritating person who talks to you while you’re trying to leave the office, or ladies in stockings. For clarity, I’m on about the last one. The type of “hold up” with the rubbery stuff round the top, which stops these nifty items of hosiery – essentially thigh high socks - slipping down your leg while you’re walking to the station.

You know the ones?

I’m not sure if you’ve ever tried to surreptitiously yank up a rebel stocking leg whilst walking down a busy road in front of passing traffic and morning commuters. But if you have, then you’ll know that there is no elegant way to do it. Your skirt could be Reiss, your shoes Paul Smith. Your hair might be glossy, and your nails neatly filed. But all that is guaranteed to mean absolutely nish all when one of your black Primark hold ups is gravitating towards the pavement at a rate of “Oh, fack”.

And because turning back is the last thing you want to do when you’re already two roads away from your house and running late, (‘there must be a way to solve this’, you think, as you try taking lighter steps, slowing your pace, holding the wayward stocking up through your jacket pocket lining), you carry on walking. You carry on until you get further away from the quiet seclusion of your cul-de-sac and into the realm of people who have managed to dress themselves appropriately that morning. You’ll be literally round the corner from the tube station before, red faced and sweating, it dawns on you that if this is embarrassing in your quiet London suburb, it’s definitely going to be worse when you get to Baker Street.

I think the highlight of my uncomfortable waddle to the station came when the rogue Primark stocking, complete with fancy trim, bagged down around my knee right in front of a mother and her two children. At that point, after another futile upwards yank, I admitted defeat. I hid behind a bush in the park like some sordid female incarnation of George Michael, hitched up the stocking and repeated the whole process back home.

Pretty Polly – you’ve got a lot to answer for. There are some things I shouldn't have to do, and a school child should never have to witness, at 8:20am in the morning.