For fatter people such as myself there are some extremely fortuitous fashions in the shops at the moment.
I don't mean the kind where Kate Moss decides to make even more cash by designing skinny clothes for skinny people who want to look like her but never will. Sorry for your troubles, missus, but that kaftan and leggings will not turn you into her even if your legs are like sticks. And don't get me started on Kate's penchant for high-waisted jeans. To use Sex and the City lingo - I am in retro box-set heaven at the moment - those trousers are just a big bowl of wrong.
The fashions of which I speak belong in the smock family of frocks - all those voluminous items of clothing that started appearing in stores a couple of months ago. They come in all shapes and sizes and span the entire colour spectrum. They feature patterns that depict everything from bold flower prints to 1950s wallpaper- style designs. There's a 1970s-British-sitcom feel to these clothes. They hint at Margo from The Good Lifeand that rampant female lodger from Rising Damp. The main point about them is that they are big. They billow. And if you are fat they mostly fit you, but they will billow rather less. That is the other most important point about them.
I purchased a floaty summer dress the other day, not quite full-on smock action but the kind that is tight at the bust and loose everywhere else. In black, obviously - lovely, forgiving black. I liked it so much I wore it out of the shop. And then I took my lovely, roomy dress for a walk in Dalkey, in south Co Dublin.
I'd forgotten what a gorgeous place Dalkey is. Forgotten about all the mansions hidden behind high security gates that keep them safe but obscure their private sea views. I'd forgotten that walking up Coliemore Road is torture for anyone who suffers from house envy or spends too long looking at €5 million-plus houses on Myhome.ie. We spent ages watching convertible cars disappear into gates of houses named Victoria and Elsinore and LookAtMyHugeGaffYouKnowYouWantIt. We didn't get as far as the pile Jim Sheridan is selling for millions, but that was probably just as well.
Down at Coliemore Harbour some Dublin heads were getting ready to point their boat in the direction of Dalkey Island, a place I haven't been to since I was a child. They were going to camp there for the night, which explained the huge rations of crisps taking up a third of the boat. The boys offered us a lift over and back for a tenner each, which seemed reasonable. The only snag was that they wanted us to climb down a ladder to the boat, and what with the dress and the light breeze I didn't want to risk it.
A woman on the boat who was taking a lift tried to encourage me down to the vessel, but I held firm. We walked back to the village, sat outside the Queens pub and did the crossword instead. Me and my boyfriend and the dress. The sun shone, the wine was cold, it was one of those lazy, hazy, sunshiny days. I was happy as I crossed the road on the way back to the car. Even at the thought of going back to our terraced house. After all, Neil Jordan, one of this area's most famous residents, lives in a terraced house. Sorrento Terrace, but still.
Just then the woman who had been in the crisp cargo boat to Dalkey Island passed by. I asked if she had a good time, and she said it was wonderful and she saw seals. "You really should have gone," she said. "Well, it was the dress, you see, I just didn't want to go down the ladder," I explained. "I know, and being pregnant . . . ," she said, trailing off. I don't really remember much after this, only that I told her I wasn't pregnant and that she said, "Well, you are wearing a loose dress", as if I insisted on wearing stuff like I should expect to be mistaken for someone with child. Another big bowl of wrong.
Never mind fractions and non-text speak, this is something that should be drummed into people from birth. Never, ever, presume a woman is pregnant. Never. Just, never. And especially this summer with the smock movement gaining pace and all these women of all shapes and sizes swanning around in outsized garments thinking they look only gorgeous.
A fashionable friend, a former model, says these clothes shouldn't be worn by people over 30 and that smocks make her look six months pregnant. Even the very attractive thirtysomething Denise Van Outen wore one on telly recently and looked, to quote my friend, "like an old bag". But, whatever people like my fashionable friend say, women of all kinds will still think it's fine to wear these clothes, just as some people still think it's fine to drink and drive. At least we are not harming anyone else. We just like loose gear. Leave us be.