I blame the Duchess of Cambridge .

Her predilection for the fitted frock, the nude heel, the natural hosiery has created a generation of working women groomed, polished, poised, professional and kitted out with the latest LK Bennett  perfect little dress and contrast jacket or matching coat. You can even invest in the LKB collection of neat nude heels whether the kitten, cuban, wedge or classic court is your footwear of choice.

Walk into any corporate office in the UK and you will spot the LK Bennett woman a mile off. She’s the one sprinting from meeting to meeting, aiming for the right mix of pathos, logos and gravitas. Approachable yet authoritative. Decisive yet inclusive. Noticed for her ability not for her physical attributes. Her clothing and style is fitted yet skimming, average yet middle-class expensive; it’s a balancing act and its safety is in its blandness, its good taste, its ability to allow the wearer to fit in, yet not stand out unless she wants to. I deeply, passionately understand this woman. I used to be her. 

When we move to Barbados, I let the majority of this working uniform go, retaining just a few lightweight frocks left hanging in the wardrobe as a forlorn reminder of a life past.

Today, I ‘shoogle’ myself into this uniform again to deliver an intercultural training session to a cross-section of multi-national folks in downtown Bridgetown.

Thankfully it’s an afternoon session and thankfully I have devoted 90 minutes of personal grooming prep so I can remember what it takes to look polished and professional. I used to be able to do this in less than 30 minutes of a morning but I now need every second of the time I’ve allotted.   Until this morning, I can’t remember the last time I used a hairdryer to dry my hair, or smoothed in serum to stop it looking wayward. I pluck eyebrows and carefully apply the right level and colour of makeup; just enough to look done, not over-done. The right scent and the right amount of scent is important; nothing too over-powering; just a whiff of light, fresh and classy. In my case this is Jo Malone; Lime, Basil and Mandarin cologne.

Then it comes the turn of the frock, which one? I pick out a navy with square neckline trimmed in cream, it goes over the head okay but what used to skim hip and thigh, seems to now stick not skim. The dreaded middle age spread and these bags of caramel popcorn are definitely contributory factors. I realise that not only do I need to select a looser style of dress but I also need to seek out my princess pants.

I have these pants in every colour and in every thigh length. I have the ones that focus on the butt and the others that focus on the belly. I have the whole contraption of thigh, butt, belly and those which push the boob up too.

I have industrial strength, medium weight and lightweight variations. I could set up my own Princess Pants shop as I was an expert in no line, slimline, shape-wear. I used to wear such underwear daily but it’s not seen the light of day here in Barbados.

And for good reason. I will spare the descriptive details but it takes fully 10 minutes of my 90 minutes to snap myself into the right pair of Princess wear. Even with the air conditioning on full blast, my hair is everywhere and my ‘barely there’ makeup  glistens with ladies perspiration. If I had the time, I’d have a lie down.

Exhausted, I then have to remember the contortionists trick required to do up the full length zip at the back of my frock.

I now have to take 5 minutes to remember how to walk confidently in high heels and not weeble-wobble like a teenager on stilts. As I walk up and down the hallway, initially using the wall to keep me upright, the confused dog gives up thinking this is some sort of game and sits down looking at me quizzically. He has, by now, covered my frock in golden dog hairs. I’m looking far less polished and professional than the Laura of the good old days.

All these antics  completely take my mind off being content perfect  and as a result, I’m relaxed during training delivery and confident in answering participants questions. However,  this may be because the blood supply in my lower body is slowly being strangled by the amount of constricting elastic encasing my flesh. Engaging with others is the only thing that takes my mind off of the mental image that one of my legs could fall off at any point.

The absolute pleasure of peeling off my princess pants when I get home is akin to being stroked all over by a feather in the mouth of a Greek God. I hang up the LKB frock not sure when I will wear it again, or if I ever want to wear it again. The worn princess pants resemble a tangled, mangled, dog-chewed rag at the bottom of the laundry bin.

Perhaps now is the time to focus on substance not style. But somehow, I know this will never be my mantra; I like dressing up too much. I just need to buy bigger princess pants.