Last night, I was obviously feeling particularly masochistic, as was evidenced by what I voluntarily did. Nobody forced me, nobody said 'hey Kate, I will give you a million dollars/the shoes of your dreams/chocolate for life' and made me go out to the Maul...
... and try on bikinis.
I could have done something far more enjoyable. Like volunteer in an 18th century cholera ward. Or have my teeth removed without anaesthetic. You know, fun stuff.
But no, I opted for standing in glaringly bright lights that made me look even paler than I actually am (which as the world knows is Casper the Friendly Ghost blanc de blanc), with a salesgirl who was a suspicious orange colour saying after EVERY pair -
They look amazing on you!!
If by amazing she meant that people would have fallen over laughing, amazed that someone would wear something so heinous, then yes, she was correct on many occasions.
Trying on swimwear is something that evil masterminds should employ as a form of torture. Next time James Bond is in a spot of bother, all they need to do is pop him in a size 007 white string number and parade him in front of a shop full of 16 year old girls.
He will give up the spy business and retire to the country to grow azaleas immediately. Never to be heard of again. That's how effective it will be. Waterboarding's out. Waterwear is in.
This is not to say that the right pair of cossies can't have the desired effect. It just takes, unfortunately, wading through a pile of really bad bathers to end up doing the wade out of the waves like Ursula Andress image.
For all my grumbles though, in this instance though I admit to being willing to make the sacrifice.
After all, there are pirates to impress.
And perhaps even shiver their timbers!