I was recently asked to attend a lunchtime drinks party; nothing unusual in that, except for the fact that widows, as a rule, don't get asked to drinks parties. I know it's a sweeping statement, but if you consider that it's at least four years since I got my last invitation, then you'll have some idea of just how popular I've become on the Devon party circuit. I have considered changing my name to Anne Thrax, because at least that way I could understand people's reluctance to invite me into their homes. It's not my fault I'm spousally challenged. My marital disability makes it hard for me to get out of the house, but still doesn't entitle me to a parking space near the entrance to Tesco. I'm stuck; stuck with the knowledge that being moderately witty and entertaining in no way makes up for the fact that I'm clearly a lacking a vital appendage.

So imagine my delight when I was asked to share nibbles and drinks with normal people. I wanted to look my best, and chose a new skirt for the occasion. I don't get to dress up very often and so it was a real treat to pull on a pair of stay-up stockings and slip into some pointy party shoes. My girls gave me a quick once-over and both decided I looked 'hot', and so I was all set to mingle and nibble with gay abandon, revelling in the company of adults and making mostly polite conversation.

We set off full of good intentions and arrived half an hour later, eager to get out and socialise. As I made my way down the gravel path, I began to experience a feeling synonymous with the slow but inextricable descent of one of my stockings. Stay-up stocking are a great invention - except when they refuse to stay up. And why is it always the left one that succumbs to the forces of gravity?

The last time this happened to me I was in The Garrick Club, attending at 70th birthday dinner. I'm not used to going to such exclusive establishments, and this, combined with the fact that it was quite soon after Charlie's death, made me completely forget my manners. I don't think the waiter had ever seen a lady guest hitching up an errant stocking before, but he certainly saw me, along with everybody else present. God knows what I thought I was doing, but it was that or let the thing fall down completely, which would probably have been enough to push me to the limit of my already over-stretched sanity. So I hitched with gay abandon; I hitched in the powder room and I hitched in the lobby, and I cursed the day that they ever invented the stay-up stocking.

Clearly my memory for embarrassing moments is short, and as the stockings were brand new and fresh out of the packet, I figured they would have enough rubbery grip to last the afternoon. How wrong I was. I only just made it into the safety of the house before the left one left the right one and went south again. My hostess looked bemused at my anguished plea for directions to the loo as soon as I'd crossed the threshold, but no matter how many times I pulled it up, the stocking kept on coming down, leaving me no choice other than stand in a corner and hope nobody invited me to take part in the Hokey-Cokey or a quick game of Twister. It's hard to look alluring when you're stooping over with one hand clamped onto your thigh, or limping around like a deranged shrapnel victim. I thought I carried off the look quite well, but why does it always have to happen to me? Didn't I deserve the chance to get out and have a nice time without suffering the indignity of chronic hosiery failure?

I'm not leaving the house now without a big roll of Duck tape and some industrial strength elastic bands. Such measures may cut off the circulation to my leg, but when you're already missing a vital appendage, losing another one isn't really such a big deal.


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