Pollyism of the week

Why I ever felt I’d look good in a jumpsuit I will never, ever know. We all have different body shapes. There is the classic Kiwi pear, which is small up top, bigger down below with an average waist. Now, these pear creatures look good in a jumpsuit. Well, not bad.

Then you have the tall, lanky lass with no fat anywhere and loads of limb length – jumpsuit very good.

There is the hour glass – now this is the most desirable. About 14 people in the world have this body type and the Kardashians and Nigella Lawson make up half that number. This gal looks epic in a jumpsuit.

Then there’s me. I have broad shoulders, big boobs, a short waist and long, muscular legs. Basically I am The Rock, but replace muscle with squishy fat. I look so flippin’ horrendous in a jumpsuit, it’s horrifying. In fact, they could make a Netflix horror called The Jumpsuit and cast me. I’d just walk around and it would horrify everyone.

I actually didn’t know it was possible to look so bad.

Picture this if you will please – a large block of cheese with arms and legs, wrapped loosely in a blue and white shapeless sack. Now put a price tag on it of $575 and gasp in horror.

I’m really not sure why we forget the styles and colours that look atrocious on us. Occasionally I see an orange “something” and wonder if the universe has altered and somehow I will look amazing sporting the national colour of the Netherlands.

No, wearing orange will always make me look like Porky Pig, that I’m recovering from a marathon or have been sunbathing without any sunscreen.

Why do I think that over a few years a colour will magically become acceptable with my complexion?

The same goes for beige, which makes me look either naked, sick or like a packet of rolled oats. Purple? It just looks offensive, and so does mustard. It looks good on eight people. None of them are Kardashians. They all have chocolate-brown skin, blonde hair and green eyes. Mustard is a friend to almost nothing except ham.

Back to the jumpsuit. I stood in the changing rooms, so darn grateful they were of the lockable variety, and no keen salesperson would come in and find me looking like a “sack of horrible” or crying into my handbag.

I gawped at myself. If I’d needed to be taken down a peg or 17, then that moment would have done it. It’s not every day you find yourself looking at yourself as a cheese block.

The silver lining, however, is this – and it’s only a very thin silver lining – it could have been even more truly soul-destroying had the jumpsuit been brown, orange or beige, rather than classic blue and white.