“I was wondering if you would go shopping with me?” ventures my boyfriend addressing the itch I couldn’t scratch that is his wardrobe.
By wardrobe, I don’t mean furniture but the disparate collection of unlikely clothing he seems to have acquired over his adult years. I ponder on how many of them just showed up on his doorstep, a little worn, looking for a warm box to sleep in and some love. On the plus side (a) they all fit (b) they often have some obvious previous function, like being waterproof, or warm or both and (c) they stop him from getting arrested for indecent exposure, so that’s something.
Interestingly, his attire’s general appallingness is directly proportional to how wonderful he is. He might be one of the world’s worst dressed men but he is also one of the world's best men. Yes, he wears his Blackberry in a holster ALL THE TIME but he has the heart of a lion (and is easy to get hold of); he is as sharp as a Hawkins; as emotionally astute as a Phil Collins power ballad and as sincere and fresh as a breath of sea air. He is the rose to my thorn and the sun to my mooning about, so what if he looks like he’s got dressed in a dark room for the last twenty years? A dark room somewhere in rural Russia?
“Of course I will go shopping with you” I reply evenly, still eyeing up the holster, my nemesis.
“Good. I’d like to get some new clothes. Tops and stuff” he concludes. Dear reader, he didn’t have to ask twice! Holster, schmolster! I have stonewash jeans and ancient fleeces to flush out. I’m mentally totting up the amount of bags I might be taking to Oxfam…
I grab my coat and he grabs his “And whilst we’re at it”, I nod to his jacket enthusiastically, “We can update that” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself. I was going to be gentle, go slow, catch a monkey but…
“What’s wrong with my coat?” he asks genuinely surprised.
It’s hard to be tactful here. The coat in question is a light ski jacket in purple and turquoise. Turquoise? Even the name of the colour is dated, like saying oblong or Marathon bar or going to keep fit. It looks like a shell-suit in search of its trousers. There’s a hint of bat sleeve and a touch of mid-80s Iron Curtain about it. It’s so wrong, it was never right.
“I took it to the Czech Republic twenty years ago!” he protests.
I’m actually surprised he didn’t buy it there.
He looks a little crestfallen and I feel bad “Wow, its taken 20 years for anyone to tell me it’s a bit shit.”
“Darling, you’ve been wearing it for twenty years. Time to move on. Let it go…” I touch his smiling face, his Blackberry holster sticks into my hip. I decide to heed my own advice: the holster can wait.
And he is really easy to get hold of…
And with that we walk out the door in search of a new horizon and jeans. Definitely jeans.
Wednesday, 2 November 2011
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
you're not wise
"So the cat can't get in"
Was my response to larger-than-life, landlord-stroke-friend's "Whatsis?" as he pointed to the heavy media tome resting atop my fish-tank.
This reference book, the size of two Rogets, an LOTR compendium and the entire back catalogue of Freemans catalogue pressed together, is an unnecessarily chunky, inevitably out-of-date...brick built by people clearly too Amish to Wiki. I don't know why I have it but right now, its full weight is helpfully bearing down on the lid of my tank. A talisman against marauding recently-adopted rescue cats. Ungainly, yes, but helpful I thought. Nicky (larger-than-life/landlord/friend) doesn't miss a thing - including the leftover blueberry scone I'd squirreled away in the fridge for later, which he is now eating. He's prodding the book disapprovingly.
“The cat? What Tigger/Tiger/The Bear? Watsisface?” he says, referring to my recently acquired feline. Nicky does't quite get domestic pets. To be fair, he is a farmer who rears cows destined for dinner plates. Animals are for outside “For fucks sake, Ness, wise yer head!” He shares the last bit of scone and contemplates Stan and Ollie, the two oddly inquisitive fish in question, as they mouth unspoken ooohs at the glass, not knowing that a weight of information separates them from having food and, possibly, being it.
‘I’ll tellya what” he says in his best ‘I’m just a country boy from County Down accent’ - which sounds A LOT like a Cornish pirate - “If that there wee fella" pointing a crumb-laden finger to the cat, "...manages to JUMP up here, then OPEN the lid on that tank, then PULL OUT that there feeding tray with his tiny, wee claws AND THEN catch those wee fish? You know what? You’ll be wanting to put him on the telly.”
He thinks more on the unlikely scenario. (Nicky's secretly fond of the fish.)
“Hell, if he manages to get those fish, after THAT? I’d cook him some chips myself to go with it but"
Was my response to larger-than-life, landlord-stroke-friend's "Whatsis?" as he pointed to the heavy media tome resting atop my fish-tank.
This reference book, the size of two Rogets, an LOTR compendium and the entire back catalogue of Freemans catalogue pressed together, is an unnecessarily chunky, inevitably out-of-date...brick built by people clearly too Amish to Wiki. I don't know why I have it but right now, its full weight is helpfully bearing down on the lid of my tank. A talisman against marauding recently-adopted rescue cats. Ungainly, yes, but helpful I thought. Nicky (larger-than-life/landlord/friend) doesn't miss a thing - including the leftover blueberry scone I'd squirreled away in the fridge for later, which he is now eating. He's prodding the book disapprovingly.
“The cat? What Tigger/Tiger/The Bear? Watsisface?” he says, referring to my recently acquired feline. Nicky does't quite get domestic pets. To be fair, he is a farmer who rears cows destined for dinner plates. Animals are for outside “For fucks sake, Ness, wise yer head!” He shares the last bit of scone and contemplates Stan and Ollie, the two oddly inquisitive fish in question, as they mouth unspoken ooohs at the glass, not knowing that a weight of information separates them from having food and, possibly, being it.
‘I’ll tellya what” he says in his best ‘I’m just a country boy from County Down accent’ - which sounds A LOT like a Cornish pirate - “If that there wee fella" pointing a crumb-laden finger to the cat, "...manages to JUMP up here, then OPEN the lid on that tank, then PULL OUT that there feeding tray with his tiny, wee claws AND THEN catch those wee fish? You know what? You’ll be wanting to put him on the telly.”
He thinks more on the unlikely scenario. (Nicky's secretly fond of the fish.)
“Hell, if he manages to get those fish, after THAT? I’d cook him some chips myself to go with it but"
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