I had complained so much about dress designers to everyone who would listen that one of the Paris designers had chosen me to end his show wearing 'The Wedding Dress'. No I didn't look like bones up there or bones down there, it was me in all my wall to wall flab. The dress was gorgeous, heavily beaded V neck, wide crinoline type skirt with train, miles of petticoats and heels, me, wearing heels. My flowers were white roses and I didn't so much as parade down the cat walk as glide. As I reached the end and had to turn, I remember thinking, here it is, where I go over the side and kill half the audience but no, I turned with grace, using my feet to flick the train behind me and continued to glide to tumultuous applause. I didn't have a veil, just a sparkly headdressy thing. Thanks to the cat, I didn't get to see myself as the next supermodel plus plus size but the dress was a beauty.
So the dream started me thinking (at that time of the morning, Great Goddess) about why dress designers don't design for lardarses. It's because they can't. Miss Skinny Pink in Satin is flat all the way around, up and down, no tits, no bum. Designers cannot cope with lumps. Fat ladies have lumps. They have lumps in strange places, they have one up/one down boobs. Fat stomachs tend to move as one glides (yes, we glide, shuttup) legs can be thinnish to tree trunks.
So you see with all their fabulous designs that they charge squillions for, they've not got the talent to dress the most Rubenesque of real women.
I dream of the day, that one will rise above this tryanny of skinny and have a show of such largeness, such women of curves to rival an alpine road and all in the most gorgeous of frocks to outshine the stick insects into extinction.
I could really kill the cat.