To celebrate my new job, and because my alleged wife has been complaining for a decade or so about my sartorial inelegance, we went out to buy some new duds last evening.
That doesn’t mean I’ve been walking about in rags all this time but simply because I bought enough in the previous century to last me a while, despite apparently losing their fashion status several millennia before the last ice age.
Now I’m not the tallest person in the world. Apparently the average male in England is 5’ 8”which in the scheme of things is not exactly big, and given that American and German men are just about the tallest in the world as I recall, I barely reach the shoulders of your average hamster. So for me the height of luxury is to wear trousers with no turn-ups. Which was why I was determined to buy trousers short enough so that they didn’t need to be folded in half before wearing for the first time. I know, low expectations but I’ve had a long time to get used to it.
Thus imagine my shock this morning after Beloved retrieved my new strides from the tumble drier, and scowling fiercely with that “I told you… etc etc” look on her face, proudly brandished them before me. Not only had they shrunk just a tad, but had I attempted to put any of them on, I would have been singing soprano for the rest of my life.
Looks like the Levi 501’s will be giving a few more years of service after all. I just wish I hadn’t used them to polish my motorbike. I hope my new boss likes the smell of axle grease.
So no one can say I didn’t try. I wonder what the new spring collection of 2020 will look like.