There is, however, one thing that fills me with dread. I detest doing it and feel the rising panic the minute I know the task is ahead of me.
Underwear shopping.
Men the world over will not understand this predicament, as their undies magically appear much the same way they have for centuries. First, your mum bought them, then the task instantly, and inexplicably, becomes that of your partner. They just turn up in the drawer and you put them on, wear them and then leave them on the floor. Job done. Oh, for life to be so carefree and easy.
The first thing you need to know is that I'm a very practical girl. I say this as some sort of explanation. I say it desperately hoping it will explain away the sorry state of affairs that languishes in my top two duchess drawers. The biggest problem I have is beige. I am the unofficial leader of the Beige Brigade. It looks like the Beige Fairy has thrown up in my drawers. I am Beige-Ruth.
I can't believe that I am going to share this with you, but share it I am.
My underwear collection is so dull that, in my flatting days, the particular flat I lived in was ransacked by thieves. They had a field day and took most of my flatmates' prized possessions. These thieves also came into my room and rifled through my underwear drawer – and didn't take anything. Nothing. Not a sausage.
There it all was, staring back at me all beige, off-white, eggshell, cream and practical. Secretly, I'm sure my underwear was hoping for an exciting outing where they could have frolicked with the colour purple but, nope, they were stuck with me. That is the only time in my life I've been annoyed with a thief for not taking something. Clearly, the sense of shame would have been too great for them. The thought that a judge would have to tell the courtroom the burglars had stolen beige underwear was too much – even for those hardened criminals.
It's the process you see. Even walking into those beautiful shops, I feel ill.
I find it baffling, overwhelming and humiliating but mostly I just find it - sad. You stand in front of the mirror and mourn a body gone by. You mourn the days when you could pick up 12C and laugh at the middle-aged women buying underwear that will hide as much as possible – now I am one of those middle-aged women and it's a horrible feeling.
There are beautiful, bright-coloured bras that shape you, cup you and can lift you higher than the All Blacks in a lineout, and I want them all so badly and always walk out with the same thing I have bought for years. Beige.
Every time I stand in those changing rooms with those mirrors and lovely women telling me I have nothing to worry about, I want to cry and run out of the shop.
Women who work in "those" sorts of shops are universally fabulous at their jobs. They spend their whole working life trying to tell women who have decided they belong on the scrap-heap that they are okay and they deserve to look special. That is the hardest job in the world – ask any husband. I've let mankind off the hook really. I've spent most of my adult life single – I think it's terminal, but at least some poor bloke doesn't have to try to tell me that beige makes me look amazing. He would be lying.
I have come to the conclusion that you have to decide you deserve to wear lovely underwear. You owe it to yourself to see a little bit of red or pink or blue or green, just sneaking out of your dress or shirt, to reaffirm that you are lovely and loveable and that you have a sense of fun and adventure. When beige rears its boring little head, it just reminds you it's time to cook tea.
Beige – be gone. It's time to colour me happy. I can hear them all as I fire them in the trash – "thanks for the mammaries".
