New Years Eve…another favourite of Nemo’s….NOT!!  This year I decided, like the last 5 years, to barricade myself in my apartment with all the chairs, the table and if I could disconnect the washing machine, that too, then open a really nice bottle of Bordeaux Superiere that I’d won at an accountants’ lunch that I attended on behalf of The Tank (believe me, a case of wine was the least they could offer me to endure 4 hours with not only accountants but tankers too – like what the f…),  order a take away, take down the barricading, pay for take away, reassemble the barricading, eat dinner, drink the wine, get slowly tipsy and fall into my bed around 11.30, waking the next day to 2013. 

This was my tried and tested formula for avoiding the NYE bullshit and it had served me well for 5 years, I politely declined the many “well if you’re doing nothing come and join me and Jim/Ken/Shane/Paul, we’re just sitting in too” invitations, I had my mind made up and if truth be known was quite looking forward to the full bottle of yum red all to myself. I was going to give up the booze for 31 days on New Year’s Day.

Anyway, I headed to The Tank for the day, avoided questions of “what you doing for NYE?” and agreed to meet with of my tanker friends for a drink before she headed off to dinner with “he who shall not be named” (her new felleh) and his mates.  At 8pm we headed to the local and shared stories of parents on Prozac for Christmas, sniping siblings, failing Skype, Downton Abbey and lovely Christmases all the same. On drink 3, my tanker friend, we’ll call her Dora, got a call from “he who shall not be named” to see where she was and I could hear her utter the dreaded words “Yeah OK I’ll ask her”…I knew what was coming “Nemo, he said if you want to come along? Nemo please come along, I know no one except yer man (he who shall not be named) and he only knows about 8 other people, please come along”… No Dora, no, thanks but I am going to back to the apartment, erect my barricade and get quietly pissed alone (that does sound tragic)…OK I won’t put pressure on you but (cue tears) I’d really appreciate if you would come along (more tears)”…I’ve always been a sucker for tears … after much toing and froing it was “Fuck ya Dora, I’ll come, but I’m only doing this for you, now get on the phone and suss out if he was being polite or if it’ll be cool if I can come along.”  At this stage I’ve had three quart bottles of wine, a cheese sandwich, a bowl of soup and 2 slices of toast – all day!  I’m confident I can do this. I can go to dinner with Dora and “he who shall not be named” and 30 OTHER people I don’t know. I’m Nemo, I’ll pretend I’m acting in a really low budget film about New Year’s Eve and sure if I play my cards right I’ll get seated with one person to one side and one in front and when it comes to midnight I can pretend the chow mein is going through me and run to the toilets shouting “Bum vomit bum vomit. Happy New Year!”

So we arrived in, well we shall call it Brumbun, Ireland’s premium retail and leisure centre and I already thought “Fuck this was a mistake, I should have just gone home…” but I was there and I just had to go with it.  And it was actually very easy, fun, enjoyable and the wine was really, really tasty – and plentiful.  I got introduced to everyone, as did Dora, and I was glad to see she hadn’t lied to me, she did actually know about two other people apart from “he who shall not be named”. 

The night went as one might expect, a lot of topping up of wine, to mask the fact we probably had little to say to each other outside of the safety of a drunken state.  I was sitting beside a very nice, but exceedingly boring, gentleman who clearly had one great experience in his life – living in Oz – and he proceeded to tell me, in detail, about how great it was to wake up in the heat and run on the beach. Even fuelled with red wine, I managed to stop myself from saying “Yeah but you live in Ireland now”… And then there were the two guys who sat further up the table, who came down to see the specimen that was brought as Dora’s friend. I should start this by saying I really don’t remember a lot of this, but what I do remember is gasps of surprise when they found I came from the other side of the M50 and so became known as Nemo from <<fill in said midlands county name>>. Some of them had never heard of the county, seriously guys there are only 26 on the country, it’s not that difficult to be aware of the name, others didn’t understand the concept of “another county” and others just failed to realise that people really did live outside of the M50 circle.  There was one gentleman from outside Ireland (that they could understand!) - Scott the Scot. He was very friendly and even said he knew someone from the town I’m from.  I was grateful of his chattiness and friendliness as Dora and “he who shall not be named” had gone for a ciggie and while I bravely waved them on, I was glad even through my drunkenness, that someone came to talk to me. So Scott the Scot and I chatted and joked. When he’d been initially referred to it was as Scott-Denise. Now, in my drunken innocence I initially thought it was his name (I had about 6 red wines at this stage), but soon I discovered that Denise was his wife’s name…and sooner again it became very clear why he was known as Scott-Denise.  

Denise wrapped up in one neat little, narrow waisted package everything that is a stereotypical SoCoDu girl - pretty, brunette (surprisingly), slim, married at an appropriate age, spending NYE with “all her friends”, domineering, snooty, rude and a bitch. I can honestly say this because I witnessed her say “Who’s that wine for (um, us!)?  I didn’t order more wine. That’s €23 a bottle. (Turns to waiter) Cut the wine, no more, cut it”… Now you might think that in an environment where only one other person actually knew me, that I would keep this to myself…nooooo, I turned to our little, but very loud group at the end of the table, and relayed the story, many times!  I even suggested we get another bottle, or round up a few Euro each and throw it into the kitty for the “extra” wine. (Might I add while I was roaring this, that Scott of Scott-Denise was still sitting right beside me as I annihilated his wife!!)  Finally Denise roared €60 each down our end of the table and I’m assuming roared something similar like “€50 each” down the other end. I decided in my drunken bravery that I was gonna be the eejit who would walk up to her and give her the money. And so I stumbled up and staggered over and, as Denise put her hand out and continued talking to someone else, I started to count out the money as I slurred “This is for me Nemo, Dora and “he who shall not be named”… 20…40…90…110…130…180”  The absolute weapon never even looked at me as I counted it out and continued to talk to someone on the other side. Never before have I met someone as rude and arrogant as was she.  If she treats her husband with even a fraction of the attitude, arrogance, domineering and controlling ways she did the frigging bill for the night well then I can understand why they don’t have their own names but are collectively referred to as Scott-Denise!

I knew I’d had a good night when, the next day, I replied to Dora’s text and asked did she and “he who shall not be named” stay much longer…and I got a reply “We dropped you home Nemo” and that’s when the balloon fight and being warned by the taxi driver came back to me…in the words of ‘the young’ you know you’ve had a good night when you can’t really remember getting home!  New Year’s Eve this year was nice – it was fun, it was drunk and forgetting how I got home made me feel younger than I have in quite some time. Thanks Dora…and “he who shall not be named”

I was deleting emails today and found an entry I'd done when Sleazy PT (Remember? The one I was using before Super PT?) was honing his skills on me... Oh how things have changed, how I've grown up! Anyway, hope you enjoy it and some of you may even recognise yourself or SleazyPT

My 5 things you need to know about Personal Trainers....enjoy!

1. Thinking of Training?

You might be completely new to the world of exercise and have no clue what you're doing at the gym. You might be in a rut of not seeing any results. Or you may be bored, in a rut and realise the most stable male relationship you've had in a while is the one you have with the local barman or cook in the chipper. Personal trainers will tailor a workout to fit your needs and tell you that they’ll help you achieve your goals. If you have a tough time motivating yourself to get to the gym or get a good workout in once you're there, look no further. For the first six months, your trainer will push you to break through all of your comfort zones, helping you get stronger along the way. After the 'honeymoon period' you may find that very same trainer a deterrent to attending the gym. We advise working on this by using our following four tips when looking for a trainer.

2. Get Fit with a Trainer Who Fits You

Look for strong credentials when choosing a personal trainer - strong arms, great abs, toned torso. Trainers might specialise in something like sports enhancement or rehabilitation after an injury. Others are likely to have a PhD in mind fuckage. Ask a trainer about his experience and what his passion is (?!) to find someone that fits your needs as closely as possible. Meet with him in person and see if there's any way you can observe him working out himself to ensure his claimed (and afore mentioned) credentials and specialism hold true. Stick with the trainer that you feel comfortable with and really connect with, even when your brain is saying MOOOVVVVEEE ON, your scales is saying FATIGUED and particularly when you spend most of your time questioning this connection and admiring his skill of mind fuckage.

3. The Price You Pay for Personal Training

Personal trainers can cost you a pretty penny. There are ways to reduce the cost of personal training, such as purchasing package deals with a trainer who works at a gym or teaming up with a fitness buddy and sharing a trainer. A good alternative is to strike up an inappropriate relationship with your personal trainer and you are likely to get a lot more training than you bargained for. A good trainer will be able to motivate two people at once without taking away from the effectiveness of your workout. Keep in mind that this may be harsh and send your female mind into overdrive as to who is the real winner, who is paying with money and who with dignity.

4. Put on a Brave Face

There's no need to be nervous as you head off to your first session with your personal trainer. You probably won't sweat much at your first session, as you won't exert yourself too much in front of this Adonis who "fits you" (see point 2)! The first thing you'll do together is discuss your goals. Be conscious of double entendres and suggestions of expanding your goals and your mind! Your trainer will weigh and measure you and go over some basic nutrition. This is where it's important to fit with your trainer as severe lack of dignity may be experienced. Alternatively these sessions can take a different approach and while he will be very intimate with your body fat, you on the other hand will just be very, very aware of it. If he has not already shown you, your personal trainer will then show you how to warm up. Ask questions to help you get more comfortable with both your trainer and the workout you're being asked to do. These are best asked at the end of the session and stick to professional questions. Questions on performance or of a more emotional nature can lead to a discomfort for both you and your trainer

5. Learn to Love Your Trainer

Many websites suggest communicating openly with your trainer so that he can meet your needs. We advise against this and experience has shown us that emotional retardation and lack of communication is the best way to conduct any type of relationship with your personal trainer. Remember that you're paying him to work for you and ensure that you spend a lot of time grappling with your conscience on this one. Follow his suggestions for the best results and learn to never trust him. A good trainer is always looking out for his best interests. He'll play many different roles in your journey together; he'll be your coach, a mentor, an object of affection, an object of passion, a fling, but most of all never your (boy)friend. Nobody is less excited for your progress than your trainer, who will never put in as much blood, sweat and tears as you have to reach your goals

Earlier on in the year I think I mentioned that I came close to an encounter with the law… I was at home last  Sunday morning, radio on, listening to The Sunday Business Show when I heard them talk of driving licences…and I went “FUCK!”  My licence had expired on the 12^th of December!  That’s nearly a month of driving around with no licence and therefore probably no car insurance.  Ironically, for once, I had fully up-to-date car tax.  Now, I’m not the best with my car. I went through a three year period where I had no car tax and had been fined not once, not twice, but three times, I left it two years before getting my last car serviced, at which the mechanic said “I have never seen an air filter like the one I took from your car”, my tyres are as close to the legal limit as is possible without being legal, the NCT expired five months ago and I’ve been putting off getting it done until such time as I replace the close-to-limit tyres. However I always, ALWAYS have up to date insurance and a valid driving licence…um except for this time and ten years ago when I realised three weeks after the fact that it had, indeed, expired. Now I hasten to add that as soon as I did, I downed keys and did not drive the car until this was fully rectified!!

The next day I logged on to rsa.ie thinking I could either apply online or download the forms…not so!  One must go to local library or Garda station and pick up a form in person.  So off I trotted to Pearse St. Garda station to embark on the licence renewal journey, so to speak.  “Hello officer, could I get a driving licence renewal form?”  “Is it a driving test form?”  “Um no officer, a driving licence RENEWAL form”… *goes in the back office to see if they have any*  “We don’t have any, sorry” “OK, thank you officer”… Dang!  I had noticed online that there are new driving licence cards being issued from the 19^th of January, so perhaps that’s why the forms are in such low supply. I phoned my local library but they said they had no forms, they had been destroyed in preparation for the new online application. In order to get a form I would have to go to the motor tax office.  There are two motor tax offices in Dublin – Smithfield and Clondalkin – open 9.30-3.30, Monday to Friday. Fan-frigging-tastic!  OK I’ll try one more Garda station, my local one, maybe they’ll have one or two hanging around there. 

So late that Monday evening, I trudged up to Donnybrook Garda station and knocked on the big heavy doors on Morehampton Road. The lights were on, but it seemed no one was home. Come on, it’s a cop shop, it has to be open right?  OK so it’s a cop shop in Dublin city, it has to be open. I banged the door again very loudly and then had a thought “Oh! This is not the actual front door, well it is the front door, but you don’t use it”…kind of like many houses down the country. This is the front door, but it’s never used! (I never did understand that. If you have a front door, why the hell wouldn’t you use it?!  If you don’t want people going in the front, well then don’t have a door there for Christ’s sake! This has probably come from my own upbringing when any man, woman, dog or child could use our front door. If you came to the back you would probably not even be noticed)…Anyway, I finally found the side entrance and headed in, about my business.

There were forms for driving tests, for resitting driving tests, for passports, for motor tax (they have forms for that?!)…but none on display for renewing driving licences, so I rang the bell signed “Ring for assistance” and out came a young f’lla of about 29 years of age. 

Nemo:             Hello officer, I’m wondering if you have any driving licence renewal forms?

Guard:             Is it a dhrivin’ test for-um yi’re lookin’ for?

Nemo:             Um no officer, a driving licence RENEWAL form

Guard:             Eh, are thir none there? Oh no, listen sure there’sh a new licence now comin’ out on 19^th of January. They’ve taken all the for-ums away from us. Ya have to go the mothor tax awfice.

Nemo:             Oh no, not the motor tax office, officer. I work in Dublin 4 from 8-5, I’ll never get to Smithfield or Clondalkin to get a form.

Guard:             Meh-be they’ll send wan out ta ya.  Here, why don’t I wait for the new licence on 19^thJanuary, sure what are we now, the 7^th?

Nemo:             But officer I have no licence at the moment, it’s expired since *lower voice and speak through side of mouth* 12^th December

Guard:             Ah sure when’s the last time you were stopped by a gy-uard?

Nemo:             *Chuckle to self* But officer that’s hardly the point, while concerned about being stopped by a guard, what about my insurance?

Guard:             Sure that’s only a small thing, if I were you I’d hang on til the new wans come out an’ git wan a doze. Sure yi’ll be stuck with the paper wan for 10 yearsh then, ya can only get a new wan if you lose the old wan.

Nemo:             OMG officer, can I record this??

Guard:             *guffaws loudly* Fire ahead! Ah now, ya picked the wrong wan to ask about this stuff, I’m fierce relaxed about it all, but ya know a thraffic gy-uard might have a different view. Tell ya what phone the mothor tax office in the marnin’ and ask dem will they give ya wan a the new ones, they might!

Nemo:             Oh OK officer!  Well thanks for your time, I’ll phone them….

Guard:             G’luck, g’luck!

I – shit – you – not!

Well hello there follower(s)...again I do believe I have one, perhaps two readers/followers but even so I love you, just the one/two of you! Anyway one way or the other I do apologise to you that I've been off the radar for so long. You see it has been a tough couple of months for me (this is where I get all serious). Nothing too major or dramatic or exciting or even scandalous, just found life a bit tough, hard to trudge through the days, hard to find a purpose, felt like was one of those merry-go-rounds that had to be pushed, except no one pushed it cos the playground was deserted. "Eh, join the club Nemo" I hear y'all say and yes you could be right, but you know this was something new for me, not being able to muster up the energy to be positive or funny or self deprecating or sarcastic or plain old schneery about The Tank and life, so I just said best that I hold off until maybe it lifted...

....Aaaaaaand I'm back! Lord Jaysus as they say, but thank God for "the New Year"...it really does bring with it hope, positivity, optimism and the general sense of resetting the clock to zero, forgetting the shite from the year gone by and embracing the new one with gusto...and indeed no where more than The Tank.

...But before I go into all that, let's talk about Christmas, New Year and resolutions. Christmas was a very nice affair chez Mom and Dad Nemo this year. Now it may come as a surprise to you that, well, Nemo n'aime pas la Noel...pas de tout en fait. That one day manages to compound all the feelings of failure, disappointment, resentment, regret and solitude into one 24 hour period. However this year I decided no! No, no, this year Nemo you will embrace the festive season, go to the Christmas parties, engage in the family games of charades, ho ho ho your way through Driving Home for Christmas, smile at your Prozac-induced parents like you're on the dhrug yourself, let the sniping go, top self up with gin from 11am right through and leave at the appropriate time back to your perceived haven that is your cold, lonely, rented apartment in the big shmoke.

And so this year it came to be that I did have a really lovely Christmas. All the Nemo-ites were in the homestead, the parents seemed to have reduced their Prozac intake (a little!) and we all got on quite nicely. I even let it slide when the little brother sniped at me such that I blushed and had a tear in my eye. But when another sibling produced their first born for the period and I retired to my flat in the parents' with its single bed, there was no getting away from the fact that I was approaching my late 30s, sleeping in a single room, in a single bed, as a single 30 something in my parents' house for Christmas...with nowhere else to go and no one else to play with. I asked myself "Is this it? Will I be the crazy aunt who'll be in Granny and Grandad's every Christmas? The crazy one who sits in the sun-room with a glass of gin permanently in her hand? The one with the big job in The Tank? The one who "never lets us down" and "always comes home" for Christmas? The one who would have been a great mother if she'd been lucky enough to find the right man? And I decided there and then that no I would not be. Or God damn it if I am, I sure as hell will have one heck of a story to go with it.  So peeps, this time next year I will not be a single woman, in a single bed, in a single room in her parents’ house. No. This year I am getting myself a boyfriend.

Now I have no idea how I'm going to do this, no idea who he will be, no idea where I will find him, no idea what he'll look like or what he'll do, but clearly he will be just about pretty dang right! I am getting ma-self-a-boyfriend! Fuck, if it was that easy I'd have just said this long ago, right?! Well anyway, I’ll worry about tactics in quarter two, we’re working on strategy for Q1. And I'm taking the first step. So if you know of any nice guys out there "fishing" (fishing, Nemo, geddit??!?!) for a fun, fit (finally!), talented (subjective), hot (subjective) gal, then let me know cos this year I'm gettin' meself a felleh!

Jesus Christ I was on the edge today. Today verged on the worst day ever in The Fish Tank.  It started off fairly well with a marathon sleep, followed by a walk to work in the pissing rain, yet I was still relatively chirpy by the time I finally swam up to The Tank....and then it all went downhill. 

No one would answer phones, I have a welt on my index finger from hitting the answer button "Good morning Nemo speaking!"...so at 12.20pm today the 26th of September in the year 2012, Nemo went on strike. Now when I say on strike I decided (in my head) that from that point until feeding time at the zoo 1pm, I would not answer the phone unless all four other individuals on the desk had answered and there was, quite literally, no one else to answer the phone except me. I SHALL NOT BE MOOOOOOVED.

So, not being satisfied with my attempt at de stroike, I felt that people really needed to know how I felt today.  Therefore throughout the afternoon, I:
- told my boss that I wasn't really a sales person at all
- told one of Flipper's helpers that I was in denial that I worked in any kind of tank
- announced really loudly that a bit of me died inside today and soon there'd be nothing alive inside, all dead, just black, dead eyes
- mouthed to one of the lads on the desk in full view of half the tank "I-hate-my-job!"
- snapped all the split ends on the left side of my head
- muttered under my breath every 30-40 minutes "I can't cope"
- told a work colleague to tell a customer who had phoned for me that I had jumped out the window, but if she wanted to leave a message, they'd pass it on should I survive
- sent crazy emails to my work buddies which I'm sure they've held on to as evidence of my psychotic behaviour should I lose the plot entirely
- downed tools at Levi Time(5.01 wha' wha'!) and ran out the door so fast I'd swear my feet did not touch the ground (and I'm not being cliched in saying that)

I'm wondering should I bother going in tomorrow at all!

It might surprise you to hear that Nemo is single 😆  Yes if you hadn’t already guessed by my reference to aged ovaries, my dream of the husband with the house and my free time to blog, let me set the record straight. Nemo is single. Now I don’t know if many of you folks are single or have been for some time, but do you find the “advice” offered a tad irritating and patronising??  I know it comes from a good place, but so too does Daniel O’Donnell and you wouldn’t clone him, now would ya?!  My two favourite are “Give him a chance, you might get to like him” and “Sure you work with tonnes of fellas in The Fish Tank, surely there are some great guys there?”  I’m a non-tank dater. I don’t do The Tank. I don’t believe in dipping the pen in the company ink (although I’m quite sure that’s a male phrase…that an ex said to me incidentally. Weird) It’s not an elitist thing, it’s more to do with the fact that I have an inability to deal with the unknown. If I hooked up with someone from The Fish Tank (well firstly I’d have to do a lot of searching, no disrespect WWs but…) I’d be able to cope with seeing him most days, with the morning after the night before, even with the “let’s not do this again” look, but I could not cope with all the other fish knowing that Nemo and Yer Felleh got together last night. God no!

Anyway, as it happens I’ve never had any problem with that whatsoever. No single Fish Tank resident has ever, ever made any kind of move on me! No SINGLE resident.  Ah yes, but I have to think every time I go to say the number of married residents who have.  At last count we are at six. Six! Six married fish have tried in some shape or form to get jiggy with Nemo.  Now, at last check I don't have "Mistress in the Making" tattooed on my forehead but it would seem I am more attractive to the not-so-attractive, older, married male fishies in The Tank.  Here's a run down of the six lucky suckers to date:

1. The boss. My first boss, 50s, bald, glasses, thin, smoked a pipe. I was about to turn 22, he told me my interview suit didn’t do anything for me, the clothes I was wearing right now were much better, then leaned over, put his hand on my knee and told me his wife didn't understand him and they were separating. I nearly vomited there on the spot.  I think when he saw me vomit on myself outside of the castle where we had our Christmas party, our potential relationship was doomed. Ach, what could have been… 

2. The “gentleman” who offered me a lift home after the Christmas party. I wouldn’t call myself naïve, but I would have called myself drunk and a cheapskate. After about 15 vodkas, a freebie lift from an oul fella from The Tank sounded like something my parents would commend me for.  He told me he thought I was as deep as the ocean and leaned over to lob the gob. I then knew that this was probably something I should not brag about to my parents (or colleagues or friends or therapist even!)

3. The newly married man (who incidentally was quite attractive, alas), asked me if my boobs were real and if I could prove it, then asked for a kiss.  The night continued with him trying to hold my hands under the table in front of a bar of friends from “the dark period in my life”. I can't say I wasn't tempted, but four months married seemed a tad early to be havin' it away with a work colleague...

4. The Penguin. About 5 foot tall, didn’t have much of a neck, wore a long floaty black rain coat, reminded me of the character from Batman from the way he laughed to the way he walked.  Concocted a story in his head that we’d “more than just pecked on the cheek” at a hotel room door, and asked to come in for coffee when dropping me to my rented accommodation after plying me with drink all night. I had to block this one out as I am quite sure there are many, many people in The Tank who, to this day, have heard Nemo had an affair with The Penguin. I can’t cope with the thought!!

5. The friend. Dedicated to his wife and children, spoke of them all the time, chastised me for being great fun on nights out, quiet and serious at work (never did understand it was the vodka that turned me into Fun Bobby!), cornered me with deep and meaningfuls every night we were out, when jokingly asked by the girls in a group “If you could shag anyone in The Tank, who would it be” refused to answer, but sidled up to me a couple of hours later with the random phrase “The answer is you" *roll eyes"

6. The shhhhhhleaze. Wavy hair, creepy eyes, followed and waited for me outside the toilets at a function in the actual tank, with Flipper and Flipper’s number two watching him. Eventually two people on his team came over to me and asked if I was OK and brought me over to their group...

I mean who can blame me? Crazy, older, married male fish groping at every angle.  No, no, for now I'll spread my fins further afield...and maintain my non-tank dating strategy.

I have decided to change Normal PT's name to Super PT because he has actual super powers.  Today I weighed in at an all time low. He said "This is your lowest Nemo, the lowest I have here on record" "Oh Super PT this is the lowest this body has on record, I think I was born, weighing in around 10 stone!" I shit you not  my friends, I never, ever remembering being anything under 10 stone. And today I hit 10 stone 8.5 pounds. Not bad for a 30 something single fish who on Feb 21st weighed in at 12 stone 7 piounds, eh?!

Yesterday I bit the bullet and hit the shops for that dreaded trip. Buying work suits. VOMIT!  You may remember a few months back I mentioned Flipper had told us to brush up, step up and pay up for some professional, corporate threads. And when I am (temporarily) released from the tank I'm expected to look oh so very professional indeed and that means suits.  So with all my running, eating less shite and training with Super PT, I now look like I'm dressing up in my father's suits!!

So off I trekked into town to buy two suits that fit me and do the job in demonstrating an air of professionalism at student prices. I arrived at Marks & Spencer, dying for a pee and therefore vowing I'd be in, tried on and bought in 20 minutes max.  I raced around the not-so-varied selection of work suits, grabbed three in two sizes, 14 and 12, and ran, very quickly (the pee!) into the changing rooms

I tried the 14 jacket, swimming on me. The 12 jackets fit perfectly.  I tried the 14 skirt, zipped it up and it dutifully fell to the ground. Too big so!  I tried the 12 skirt and it was weird, I think it looked too big, it just did not look right. I turned it this way and that way, I sat it on my hips, I sat it on my waist, nope this was not going to work. Oh for God's sake now I've just gone from being between a 14 and 16 to between a 14 and 12 and now a 12 doesn't look right either.  I had now forgotten about my need to pee and thought "Ah sure, just for the laugh..."  "Em excuse me, could I get this skirt in a size 10 please?" No sniggers or smirks, no "yeah right" eyes, um OK, this is kinda weird.  She returned with the skirt and I snuck back into the changing rooms. I took the skirt off the hanger, unzipped it, stepped into it and slipped it up. What? No rrrrrrrrripppp when it got to my arse? No sweat patches when I finally zipped it up?  No panic trying to figure out how I'd get out of it? No... eh what th... This is really strange, I've never felt this bef...eh I think this size 10 skirt fits me. It fits! It fits!  I got outta that skirt so fast I, I nearly peed!! I smiled cheerily at the fitting room attendant, I cooed at the snotty child in the way, I skipped over to the counter...."I'll have this size 12 jacket and size 10 skirt suit please", I beamed at the (male) cashier.

So I now own the first size 10 skirt since my 2nd year school uniform skirt when I was 13. (The fact that I continued to beat myself into it every school morning until I was 16 is something I will have to live with for the rest of my life.) OK so it's M&S and we know they're on the generous side but give me this - please.  I now hold four different sized skirts in my wardrobe, 10-16, all of which fit me, which is telling of the good old high street shops!  And Normal PT, I hereby pronounce you SUPER PT!!!!!!! You are a superhero!