One of Man’s most horrific experiences - well for this man anyway

Men often get a lot of flack for not wanting to go shopping with their partners. I’m very lucky that Charlotte has always been very good at understanding that I can’t stand shopping. In fact I don’t think she likes it any more than I do so usually it isn’t a problem. We do as little as possible and use the internet for home shopping whenever we can.

However, last Saturday Charlotte wanted to get a feeding bra from Debenhams. These things have to be fitted because of sizing differences. I’m a bloke so I didn’t know that. In fact I didn’t know that feeding bras existed. My mind was boggling.

So we went to Debenhams and no sooner had we arrived at the bra and knicker floor than a feeling of doom descended on me.

By the way, I’ve always hated the words knickers and pants to describe underwear. However, both words are excellent forms of cursing. Shouting out “Oh knickers!” when you slam you hand in a car door is much funnier than anything else. And when describing a rubbish movie, for example, it’s better to refer to it as being “complete pants” than saying it wasn’t as good as the novel. For me the best slang word I’ve learned for underwear is one that I only discovered a few years ago, that is - Shreddies. To put it in context - “I’m going away for a month so I’ll need to pack at least one spare pair of shreddies” Or two if you get self-conscious.

Anyhow, back to the story. We arrive at the Debenhams shreddies department and I am suddenly bombarded with names like Jasper Conran and La Senza among others. And gazillions of different pairs of shreddies and bras of all shapes, sizes, colours and descriptions. To be fair, if the floor was completely empty and if I knew nobody was watching maybe my experience of being in a women’s shreddies shop would be different. But I’m not alone here, am I? There are other people here browsing - womenfolk. And although I can’t actually tell, I get the feeling they are looking at me suspiciously. I can feel their eyes burning into my skull. I feel a childish sense of awkwardness about it. I should have arranged to meet Charlotte in a cafe afterwards. She doesn’t need me to be here. My heart starts racing as I begin to panic. I don’t know where to look. I’m a bloke in a women’s shreddies department so I can’t make eye contact with anyone, smile or say hello - they’ll think I’m a pervert, I just know it. So I say nothing and follow Charlotte gingerly around the shop until we find an assistant who can measure Charlotte up for a bra.

We find the fitting rooms and fortunately so far there aren’t many people in the queue. So I relax my guard a little. Charlotte takes a seat next to a rack covered in packets of undies. My eye glances at some of the brands and types of shreddies on offer. I’ve never heard of Spanx Power Panties with Tummy Control before - I mean what the heck is that all about? Nor have I ever learned about Trinny and Susannah’s Original Magic Knicker. Magic? In what way? No, I can’t even begin to think. In fact I can’t even make a joke about it without blushing. Panic is setting in now. In a minute one of the cubicles will become free and Charlotte will abandon me in this alien and terrifying environment. I will be all alone, lost in a wilderness of shreddies and potentially hostile beings (womenfolk).

And then the moment comes when a woman exits one of the cubicles clutching a handful of shreddies which look too small for even the tiniest barbie doll and marches over to the counter to pay for them. The assistant we met before comes over and disappears into a cubicle with my wife to measure her. And I’m overwhelmed with how much I’m learning about women all in one go here. Blokes just never, ever, ever go into cubicles with other blokes in shops to be measured up for anything. Why? Because we’d get beaten up.

The nightmare worsens when a few other customers - female ones - decide to join the queue for the fitting rooms. I’m feverishly studying my feet and the carpet desperately avoiding looking into anyone’s eyes. I’m sure they’re wondering what on earth I’m doing here, sitting next to a rackful of Power Panties. I’m half expecting one of them to call the cops.

After an agonising wait of perhaps 3 or 4 minutes Charlotte surfaces from the fitting room cubicle, totally unaware of my anxiety and discomfort. She’s found something she wants. I move close to her, just so that all the suspicious customers around me will know that I’m no weirdo, just a poor miserable husband who stupidly went bra shopping with his wife.

She pays.

We leave.

Lesson learned.

I’m not doing that again…

Ever.

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