Inside Style - The Dreaded Ned

Inside Style by Annmarie O'Connor - as featured in The Dubliner magazine - July 31st

Ned is back.  The pot that briefly separated from my belly has taken up residence again. Granted, I sort of led him on. That holiday in Frigiliana was like five-day foreplay: patatas bravas, chorizo, cheese platters, churros and oodles of San Miguel. No wonder why he decided to stay. I'm hoping the little interloper will realise there's no unlimited tapas bar at casa Kimmage. Despite ill-fated attempts at scaring him away with my Slendertone (note: not so effective whilst watching East Enders and drinking wine); the realisation occurred that a renewal of my gym membership was required.

Gyms - not exactly my provenance. The thought of sweat, baggy track pants and machines that don’t spit out coffee when you press ‘Start’ fills me with dread. Last I darkened the door of a Ben Dunne establishment was when ‘The Viper’ got popped in the car park. I had Martin Foley to thank for the ‘too dangerous to work out’ excuse; but with Ned demanding squatter’s rights, it was time to risk it or biscuit.

I chose to risk it (although the biscuits did look tempting).  With that came the equally dicey task of wardrobe choices. Despite what Isabel Marant SS10 will lead you to believe, grey marl does not constitute ‘sport luxe’.  (The bitch!) Those louche harem pants may look catwalk-ready but ironically are not made for sporting enclosures.  Paired with trainers and a moving incline, you’re looking at patches of damp vaster than a Louisiana oil slick. This I discovered to  my detriment, when aside from looking as if I sported man bits, I suddenly look as if I had wet myself. Nice.

It was back to the drawing board. My sophomore outing was sartorially sounder. Packed in my goatskin bag was a black ‘Wintour, Shulman & Menkes’ tee with matching crop leggings and patent (now slimline!) MBTs.  Result?  Front row at the treadmills, kids. Although much to my own chagrin, I soon discovered that reading Vogue on the Stairmaster elicits its own brand of humiliation. But that’s another story.

The upshot of this raw deal is that Ned has just about packed up and left. Maybe I’ll buy a crop top to show off my resident-free abs? Then again that Barcelona wine-tasting tour is only days away. Maybe I should just give Ned the spare key.