Today I went bikini shopping. I loathe all in one swimsuits with a passion and like to let it all hang out on holiday. I usually am a bit of a cheapskate when it comes to swimwear, Hell, it’s going to get all chloriney, salty and sandy and covered in sun cream, so it’s Matalan, Primark or Tesco for me. I’ve always looked with vague curiosity at those swimsuit fashion pages which exhort you to “invest” in a piece of carefully sculpted Lycra, which usually costs more than the budget airfare.

For some unknown reason I ventured into a “proper” lingerie and swimwear shop today – maybe because of my advancing years and waistline – and took the plunge.

I’m used to feeling belittled and shamed in the privacy of my own little circle of hell known as the changing room, however this took on a whole new aspect. On enquiring why I couldn’t find anything for a 36C, I was loudly informed by the bossy and interfering shop assistant (who actually had a tape measure around her neck and glasses hanging from a chain) that “the average bra size” where I live is 34DD.

The bikini tops were therefore very tight around the chest with gargantuan cups and the bottoms seemed to be enormous granny pants with much too tight elastic. I ended up looking like a cross between Miss Marple and Madonna in her Jean Paul Gaultier phase, with decidedly more overflow around the edges.

The assistant, however, refused to be beaten and brought me a steady stream of increasingly ill fitting items, together with a loud running commentary about my odd body shape and “small chest”.

Even when I repeatedly redressed in an attempt to escape, she would fling another sized bra through the curtains and an “even roomier pair of bottoms” for the entire shop to enjoy.

In the end I left with a rather nice bikini which did fit properly and looked quite acceptable, but which cost me more than the lovely evening dress I subsequently bought after dazedly wandering in to the 70% off sale in Monsoon.