Winter is sent to try us all.
But I would like to argue that it tests many women to the very extreme via the necessary evil that is the deceptively humble looking pair of tights.
Not, I’m sure you’ll agree, an issue that is considered vital on the world stage.
But one that impacts millions of women and some men (particularly, so I’ve heard, chilly football referees and reporters – you know who you are) from every generation every second of the day.
Even if you have managed to root through a drawer and miraculously locate a pair of these generally hidden hosiery in an unladdered, un-holey, bobble-free state and in approximately the right colour, you are certainly not home free.
Determining which way these beauties go on is a skill in itself, while managing to successfully insert them on your legs without poking your toes through or twisting them until your blood stops circulating in various parts of your anatomy, is pure genius.
If you’ve got that far, you are grateful to leave the house and take on Storm (I’ll pick Henry as he hasn’t happened yet) in a semi-warm state – no matter if the crotch of said item is lingering somewhere near your knees.
It is this very scenario that sees professional, immaculate -looking, women, dressed in finest office chic and about to conquer the world, reduced to humilating red-faced office-based gymnastics in a bid to hitch up the pesky pantyhose before it trips them up.
These microfibre monsters may keep you warm but they come at a price, and a steep one at that if you opt to dodge the nylon-nightmare for the posh sweat-free variety.
Many people hate tights.
They are placed in the same category as leggings (don’t always flatter but wow, are they comfy) and furry sheepskin Ugg-style boots (you can grasp this item of cosy footwear out of my cold, dead, hands).
But in fact tights are in a category of their own.
Here total comfort is only achieved with a fight.
They are on the frontline of every woman’s everyday battle with life.
But a comfy pair?
The unholey grail.