When growing up I never saw my Nan in trousers (or slacks as she would probably call them). She thought women had a duty to be feminine at all times and complained whenever I wore trousers. But it was her insistence on 'bringing me out of my shell' that saw me wedded to jeans throughout my teenage years; the only place I regularly wore a skirt was at school where pleated, grey sacks of a certain length were de rigueur - but at least I was safe from Nan there.
Until I got wise to her, and went into permanent denim, a typical scenario has the two of us walking through Oxford - it is daytime, she is sober, I am fourteen - skinny and self-conscious. She would then address random men: 'This is my granddaughter - doesn't she have fabulous legs? Have you ever seen such good ankles?' This would be followed by a simper (from her, not me - I would be pretending I didn't know her) 'She gets her bone structure from me, of course.' (When I finally saw Taxi Driver I felt a certain kinship with Iris.)
Mortified I would remonstrate with her, but this seemed to increase her need to embarrass me. Nan seemed to think she was doing me a favour, always saying things like 'Don't hide your light under a bushel'.