I always get undressed with my back to the mirror in dressing rooms and this one is particularly small so turning around to face myself will take some tricky manoeuvring.
The eight-inch clear Perspex stilettos and the small but potentially fatal pile of discarded clothing at my feet will not make it any easier either. And pulling on the stockings, it’s hard not to get my fingers caught in the industrial strength fish nets. But it’s the low-slung, shiny, black vinyl shorts with their slightly wonky little silver buckles either side the front zip, that provide the ultimate test. I pull and squeeze and zip myself into them but can’t bear to look.
I am ridiculous. I feel like crying.
‘How do they fit? It’s the young hovering shop assistant. ‘Come on don’t be shy. We’re all women here.’
Pushy. And that ‘we’re all women here’, is not strictly true because there was that man behind the counter who looked like an elderly Eastern European haberdasher busily rearranging his display of trinkets and condoms, scarves and handcuffs.
‘Yeah, come on out honey!’ Damn. There’s another customer in the shop now besides me and she sounds pushy too.
I am like an actress waiting nervously behind the curtain in the wings about to get on stage. Rosalind Russell said that ‘Acting is standing up naked and turning around very slowly.’ But I am a middle-age woman in a small darkish shop on a dusty street in Surry Hills, Sydney, on the brink of leaving her comfort zone to stand in front of a young shop assistant, an old haberdasher and some other customer who calls me ‘honey’. Most significantly, I am dressed like an ageing porn star. I part the red velvet curtain.