Throughout my many years of marriage, there have always been particular articles of clothing that have become points of contention. For instance, there was the maroon cardigan (actually maroon doesn’t do it justice, it was more the colour of a Dunhill cigarette packet). I loved that cardigan. And OK, it had a bit of a hole on the elbow, but nothing a good patch wouldn’t have fixed. It was my favourite article of clothing. And my wife hated it. She said that only really old grandads, with pipes and tufts of white hair coming out of their ears, could wear cardigans like that. I was 25, and apparently didn’t qualify. With a devil-may-care attitude to fashion, I wore it as often as I could. The elbow hole grew bigger, and was matched by one on the other side. Strangely, this embarrassed my wife, and she often complained and even hid it several times, but to no avail. I thought that that cardigan was totally cool. I still would be wearing it, if only I could find it, but of course it went mysteriously missing many years ago. My wife claimed she knew nothing of the disappearance, but naturally I suspect otherwise.
Since then, we have had other fashion disagreements. There’s my really cool batik shirt from Indonesia, for instance. Bright reds, yellows and all sorts of other colours, it’s brill! My wife will not be seen dead with me wearing that one in public.
And another example from yesterday. “Oh pleeease not that orange shirt,” said my wife, as I tried to make an escape out of the door, before she saw me. “You’ll just look like a great big, bright blob!”
“Don’t worry,” I replied. “No meetings today… and all I’m doing is setting up an exhibition, so no one’s going to see me.”
“But…”
“And there aren’t any more shirts ironed, and I’m late!” I forestalled further protest with a kiss and a big grin and bolted out of the door.
Off to work I went, set up the exhibition stand and returned home. And that was that. Or so I thought.
Today, after attending the exhibition, I returned home to my wife’s raised eyebrow. “So no one saw you in the silly looking shirt yesterday, huh?”
“Hardly a soul,” I replied.
She handed me a copy of today’s Diario de Avisos, a local Tenerife newspaper, finger stabbing at an article about the exhibition.
“And who’s this blurry blob in the photo then?”
2 Comments:
Wouldn't wear an orange top if the American Vice President, Dick Cheney, comes to town. Ask one 78-year-old Harry Whittington about being a "quail" target in an orange hunting jacket.
Nice blog. Wish I lived there. I'll be back.
Fortunately for us, U.S. politicians tend not to grace our shores and so I am fairly safe in my (rather dashing and very un-bloblike) shirt.
Glad you're enjoying the blog.
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