When I first moved in with Carole she took an instant dislike to my jogging bottoms. She would look at them with disgust each and every time I wore them. It was if she just wanted to take them off me and throw them away so that I would be none the wiser and have bare, cold legs for the rest of all time.
In fact, that’s what she tried to do. She often threatened to throw them away when I wasn’t looking or when I wasn’t in. That way I wouldn’t know they were gone and by the time I found out it would be too late. And I would have bare, cold legs for the rest of all time.
In the end, I bowed to the constant barrage of pressure and tutting that I was being met with on a regular basis and threw them away. All of them. They went in the bin never to be seen again. Cold, bare legs for all time be damned I thought, this will show that I love her and she will be more understanding when it comes to other things she’s taken an instant dislike to.
And all has been well in the house for the past few years (apart from the fact that my legs have been quite cold on occasion).
Today more of my clothing met a sad end.
Carole made me throw away what I will refer to as my “weekend pants” – the underwear I would wear at a weekend, or on a day off work, when I am statistically less likely to be hit by a bus and, as everyone knows, be judged by the emergency services based on the state of my pants.
Basically these pants were really, really comfy. They were lovely. Putting them on was like spending time with an old friend – albeit an old friend who cupped your genitals for most of the day. They were soft and beautiful. Yes there were a few holes in them, and the material around the waistband was wearing out a little, so that you could see the odd patch of elastic. But they were my weekend pants. They were my comfort blanket at the end of a week of work. They were my friends.
Ok, I’m lying. You couldn’t see the odd patch of elastic. You could see the odd patch of underwear still holding the elastic to the pants. They were really worn out, but you never know when I’d find myself in a situation – at a weekend – stranded somewhere (e.g. Ikea) when I’d need to fashion a rudimentary catapult from a Y-shaped piece of wood and my underwear elastic in order to hunt for food. These pants, you see, would have been ideal. The elastic was practically begging to be freed, while still carrying out its main duty of holding my undies up.
But all that is gone. Destroyed by Carole in what she sees as a test but I see as extreme vandalism.
My weekend pants were asked to perform one last duty. If they were meant to be worn, Carole explained, then they would survive what amounted to a tug of war between the two of us in the front room. For Carole it was probably over in a flash. For me, it was like the end of a movie, when everything goes into slow motion and the hero takes a jump shot – hoping to get the ball in the basket and save the day. Everything slowed down. I could see everything that was happening unfold in slow motion. I could see every fibre of the pants straining as they were stretched taut between Carole and myself.
I could see the fibres rip. I could hear the distinctive sound of all the threads giving up. They couldn’t take the strain. They weren’t used to that kind of pressure. They failed me. And I failed them.
And now they’ve gone.
I no longer have weekend pants.