I awoke this morning to find that Herself had left me out a fresh shirt and trousers, during the night.
I’m not quite sure why, as the ones I was wearing were clean. At least, they were four weeks ago.
I am very fussy about my clothes.
Shoes must be comfortable, and I hate leather soles, because they are slippery. Runners tend to fit the bill here, but I draw the line at the one that have little flashy lights in them.
Socks must be above the ankles. I don’t see the point in socks that don’t even reach the top of the shoe. I also hate socks that have worn out at the toe, as it is very uncomfortable walking with a big toe sticking through a hole. Sometimes, I even wear matching socks, but not often.
Trousers must have deep pockets. I have a lot of things to keep in my pockets, so capacity is of prime importance. They must also have zip flies. I hate buttons. They are fiddley and after a while I tend not to bother doing them up, which has led to some awkward moments in the village.
I am very fussy about shirts. My shirt must have a breast pocket, for holding my drinking money. For some reason, shirts with pockets are out of favour, and are not that easy to find. I also will not wear a shirt that has writing on it. I don’t see the point in paying good money for something, and then walking around like an advertising billboard. The exception to this is when the writing is funny.
I was in a pub a while ago, and there was a girl there. Frankly, the poor cow wasn’t much to look at facially, but she had a fantastic figure. She was wearing tight jeans and a white t-shirt. The t-shirt had two arrows on it pointing upwards and the text “my eyes are up here”. This was written across her rather alluring chest. I had a white shirt on at the time, so I nipped into the Gents, and customised it with a pen. I then went out, found the girl and plonked myself in front of her, and had a good long look at her tits. I had put two arrows on my shirt pointing downwards, with the text “My brain is down here”. She wasn’t amused.
Where was I? Oh yes. Clothes.
The shirt Herself left out for me has no breast pocket.
I thought I had destroyed all the pocketless shirts, but apparently not. I have just put a large hole in it by spilling some burning pipe tobacco. I’ll dump it shortly, and find a decent shirt.
At least the trousers have a zip.
When I go down to the village later, I won’t be airing my differences.