Blue Per-Suede Shoes – Clothes Shaketh the Man

 

I have survived, but only just, the annual husband clothes-buying spree, having spent many months pointing out that his clothes (hollow laugh, here) are no longer fit for purpose.  Some of them are no longer at all, in fact, but several inches shorter than when first acquired. His trousers, alone, have the distinction of falling into two camps:

a) paint spattered Jackson Pollocks

b) Jolly Jack Tars, flapping six pallid-flesh exposing inches above his ankle.

I do not lie when I say that his wardrobe has begun began to resemble the Bermuda Triangle – things disappear in it, principally buttons, zips and belts, and once the cat, never to be seen again.

Underwear? Don’t go there – I won’t! Suffice to call it a holy show.

In any case the divorce letter finally got through to him and, today, me looking grim but purposeful, him just looking grim, we braved the shops and he actually went in. As with locust-like expertise I stripped the rails, throwing jackets and trousers at him, the look on his face turned from grim to downright mutinous.

‘Fine,’ he muttered, modelling a jacket that made him look like Lurch from the Adams Family, as half the shop sniggered behind their hand. The only excuse I can think of is that he was standing at least fifteen feet away from the mirror and needs new glasses as well as new clothes.  Not being Morticia, I was less than impressed and forced him to try on several more, till eventually we struck pay dirt with a tailored linen-mix in a classy shade of oatmeal. The same pantomime followed with a succession of trousers and jeans, him saying ‘fine’, me yelling ‘it’s not bloody fine – you look like Charlie Chaplin/Max Wall/Gordon Brown’ as other shoppers gave us a very wide berth and peered anxiously about for the exit points.

Eventually, though, we acquired enough booty to satisfy even me, plus I managed to persuade him of the youth-enhancing qualities of a tastefully patterned shirt – a first!  Pushing my luck, I picked up a pair of dark blue ,suede loafers on our way to the checkout.

‘Never in a million years!’ he roared, the veins in his neck bulging the same colour. Reader, we bought them.  Tonight, I will sleep soundly in the knowledge that peace has broken out for a further year, and that my husband will not be arrested either for vagrancy or indecent exposure.

Eats Leaves and Shoots Carnation Petals – the language of flowers!

 

A recent survey found that an impromptu gift of flowers from the man in your life could lead to accusations of cheating.  This, you understand, is not something of which I have personal experience as, in common with many other men, my husband doesn’t ‘do’ flowers. ‘Why,’ he exclaims, wearing the kind of persecuted face Ann Boleyn wore on her way to the block, ‘do you need flowers to know I love you? Besides, the last time I gave you flowers you mocked and scorned me. And five years on, you’re still nagging.’ Huh! I deny none of it. Let the crime fit the traducing, is what I say and pink, plastic and nasty ratchets up the punishment factor.  Even worse, if the pink, plastic and nasty offering comes in a nasty, brown plastic hanging-basket guaranteed to be still going strong when only cockroaches hold sway.  Listen up, men; this is for your own good. There is a strict hierarchy in the world of flower-giving, one you would do well to learn quickly if you are not to revert to walking on all fours.

Real  = good (kisses follow and happy-clappy sounds)

Fake  = skirting close to the wind. (danger of low flying kitchen knives, divorce, maybe violent death)

Red roses from Interflora  = (kisses and hugs, candlelight dinner, nudge nudge, wink, wink and uninterrupted viewing of Sports Channel.)

Bunch of diesel-smelling, dusty blooms from service station – Only ever to be attempted by those wearing full Kevlar body armour, or by Arnie Schwarzenegger’s body double. (Most common complication –  Eats leaves and shoots Carnation petals, thorns and stems from orifices not usually on public display.)

So there you have it, guys, the Dummy’s Guide to saying it with flowers. Just remember to choose your words (and flowers) with care.

Me? I’m just off to buy some shoes, a handbag, a new dress, perfume and, of course, some flowers – all on David’s credit card. Ah, well, he should have gone to Interflora.