Last updated 19:24, Thursday, 07 February 2008

We’d thought about joining Weight Watchers – an idea so scary we each lost 2lbs from the fright. So we skipped lunch and went out to celebrate.

It hadn’t been our intention to turn into a bossy Cumbrian version of Trinny and Susannah.

We’d planned only for a bit of adventure; swerving and skidding in negotiation of killer potholes and then a little flighty flaunt of dramatic weight loss.

Two pounds surely being equal to two dress sizes, we wanted to make the most of our good fortune in an appropriate setting – hence our choice of Bev’s lovely Loft over option B, the hardware shop and squirrel spotting in Gelt Woods. Bev’s place is just right for showing-off. It’s a good place to play at being a fashionista.

The sun was shining, a few spring buds were poking through here and there around Fenton and – since we’d fallen down no potholes – all was right with the world. We were short only of the Blues and Royals offering a fanfare for our flouncing.

But in eagerness to boast, we’d forgotten it was the wedding season. Mothers of brides were up for parading their plumage too. They were ahead of us – and they were strutting their stuff rather well.

A touch crestfallen, my fellow flaunter returned an overly snug black jacket to its rail, sank an elbow into my ribs and whispered: “That lady’s a size eight and the dress is still roomy.”

The petite shopper in question was examining her full-length dressed-for-a-wedding reflection in a mirror. Resplendent in Sheila’s Wheels’ pink, she was looking a little concerned about the bosom area of her outfit. We could tell what she was thinking... too much bosom, not enough outfit. She was fidgeting – unnecessarily, I thought – with her straps.

“Pink’s not my colour,” I whispered back. “But if I could fit into that I’d buy two.”

Now we were both crestfallen.

It’s an important day, a wedding day. It seems to me it’s an especially important day in this part of the world, where brides’ mothers appear single-mindedly focused on looking the bee’s knees in haute couture – or similar. Also interesting is that for all other Cumbrian events, sense of occasion comes as naturally as sense of smell.

It’s not something this county is nationally or internationally famous for – looking good. But it should be.

In some other parts of the country dressing down is the thing. Inverted snobbery, probably but espousement of the principle that it’s somehow rude to look as though you’ve made an effort is the curse of the big city classes.

“Bored and boring... so stylish, darlings.” They don’t know what fun they’re missing.

The lady in pink was now toying with the idea of a three-piece in powder blue. I joined in with Trinny-type encouragement, much preferring the blue – though I had to concede that Sheila’s Wheels might be more useful in Cumbria’s pothole culture. My companion Susannah was ordering another mum to try on a gold and black ensemble with flamboyant netting around her legs and a matching hat. An improvement, she advised on the ankle-length beige with enormous midriff bow.

Bev was complaining bitterly about the yew tree in her garden which was tangling itself in her phone wires and turning her credit card machine into a tempera-mental teenager. In frustration she opened a bottle of wine, which seemed like an eminently sensible alternative to dragging out ladders and taking a chopper to the tree.

If the brides’ mothers or Bev felt harassed and harangued by us butting into proceedings none of our business, they were kind enough not to mention it and polite enough to let us be part of their sense of occasion.

Our afternoon had become, by surprising turn of happy, disparate events, a proper girlie affair – for girlies of a certain age, that is – of wine glasses and frocks, dressing up and gossiping with new friends.

“It doesn’t get much better than this,” I chirped to Susannah. She thrust a pair of trousers at me.

“You liked these before Christmas,” she said. “Try them on. They’re in the sale.”

They were actually a size larger than I’d seen previously but having lost 2lbs, the prospect of them falling off my emaciated frame was simply too delicious to resist. “If these fit I’ll kill myself,” I said.

They did. So I bought them and we hatched a comfort plan. More adventurous skidding and swerving around potholes to reach Cumbrian Cottage down at Hayton before closing. Buy big tubs of pistachio and toffee ice cream and later repair all calorific damage by thinking of joining Weight Watchers again... twice as hard as last time for double the loss.

Presto! A solution for every problem. How I love this Cumbrian life.