A PVC catsuit? Fine. If I could slice a sliver (or maybe a wedge) of extraneous flab from my thighs I’d happily sport one – a nice shiny black one - for doing the food shopping at Tesco’s. Not sure where I’d keep my purse but I guess I could stuff some notes down my modest cleavage, to be saucily unzipped at the checkout.
I can imagine the scene now. “Do you need help packing your bags?” the assistant asks sneeringly, eyeing me up and down in my sleek all-in-one as she points her scanner pertinently at the Quorn chicken fillets on the conveyer belt, nestled between a bottle of baby oil and a cheeky little Merlot.
“These are no faux meat micro-protein, I’ll have you know!” comes my retort, for mine are, of course, as natural as organic Honeydew melons, even if not of the same proportions. Then I flick my lethal Clubcard out from my palm like a switchblade and, as if by magic, the wheels on my trolley align themselves and the assistant manages a smile.
And all because I’m wearing a fantasy PVC catsuit. It appears to have given me unhinged super powers and yet it’s only a figment of my imagination. This is where I get to my point (but I hope you didn't mind the diversion). I just wish I could say that the strange phenomenon that is popularly known as 'The Onesie' was only a figment too. If only it didn't actually exist. This is not like a catsuit or a wetsuit. Apart from the fact that it looks like it should never be worn by anyone other than a baby, even the name sounds like baby-talk. I’m mouthing it now with my face contorted into an exaggerated doe-eyed pout: Onesie. Ooh! Ickle-wickle-fluffy-bunny onezhie!
So, what the fuck are onesies all about? Why are they catching on? Please promise me you aren’t wearing one, you never have worn one and you never ever will. If you need any more convincing, particularly if you are a man, please read this. (I urge you to read it anyway - it's just brilliant. I am loving The Daily Mash!)