Tiny Pants

Dear O'H dear and Lovely Tea Jenny,

Mary Doll and Victor were round for lunch today. There is always a ‘WTF’ moment with Mary Doll. Always.

I made the schoolgirl error of hanging up a load of washing in front of her.

“WHO’S TINY PANTS ARE THOSE?” she asked accusingly.

“They are mine and they are a perfectly normal size,” I answered, wondering why, at the age of 45, I was having a conversation about my underwear with my mother.

“THEY WON’T COVER YOU,” she continued, clearly not willing to let this lie.

I assured her that my M&S bikini knickers were hardly racy and that it isn’t necessary to have pants that could be whipped off and used as a sail in the event of a boating emergency in order for them to cover my bum.

The Eldest Mini Princess came to my defence and assured her insane grandmother that I even buy a size too big in pants to make sure they are big enough and comfy.

“I didn’t mean your BUM,” she wittered on. “I meant,” as she started pointing at me, circling her index finger and lowering it, “THAT”

I firmly told her that I wasn’t about to jump on the crazy wagon and drop my jeans to prove that my unmentionables were safely under cover.

I’m going to buy some crotchless pants and hang them up next week.

C