Thursday, 14 July 2011

Hosiery II: Dark Territory

Apologies, dear reader, for I know I have already blogged about tights in relation to the bootylicious lady (or man, we’re not prejudiced here - I deny all pear shaped people the right to combine patterned tights with hot pants, irrespective of gender)... but I feel I must speak out on the subject of tan tights in the style of a bad observational comedian.

So you know tan tights, yeah? You tend to have a couple of pairs in reserve for things like weddings and job interviews, and occasionally making oddly shaped dummies for school art projects, but they aren’t the hosiery of choice. This, of course, is because they are ridiculously fragile.

As a general rule they come in packs of two, and I tend to ladder the first pair through the simple act of opening the box and looking at them. The second pair may get as far as a second wearing before I put my finger right through, which could happen when I’m in the process of being late for an event; but is 98% more likely when I’m already there and about to be seen by several people, or possibly photographed.

T’other day I donned tan tights for the very simple reason that they were the first to come to hand and I was horrendously late for work. I was pretty suspicious when they went on without catching on anything (fingernails, my ring and the odd rogue leg hair were all present, correct, and sharp as ever), but I chose not to question it any further lest they take the huff and disintegrate.

They lasted til I went to spend a penny at break time, at which point three fingers went through and created an enormous rip near the top of my leg. This was a masterstroke on the part of the tights, because it meant that the hole would start out invisible to the passing viewer but would gradually ladder all the way down my leg throughout the course of the day. Every time I moved a few more threads would go, and only I would be aware of the inexorable decimation of nylon.

By lunchtime the arrangement of ladders had spread down in all directions to just below my knee, and by the time I got home I looked like a snake trying to wriggle out of an old skin. Well, my left leg did. A bit. Sorry, I’m out of good similes.

Naturally this whole experience raised several deeply important questions.

Q. Why not take the holey tights off and stop moaning?
A. Cause I hate the feeling of my thighs rubbing together, and am not prescient enough to carry a spare pair of tights everywhere I go.

Q. What are tan tights made out of?
A. Cobwebs, I assume, or possibly moonbeams. Something flimsy and insubstantial, at any rate.

Q. How much truth do you think there is in the conspiracy theory about the Mossad offing John F. Kennedy?
A. None, but it’s a fantastic story of paranoia and madness.

And on that bombshell, I bid you good day. And good luck.


  1. they sell tan tights in the coffee shop, but they are even more fragile than your usual pair, and cost £3.10 for the privilege of disintegrating.

  2. Better to use the coffee to stain your legs, like a modern version of WW2 gravy stockings...