For several months my wife and daughters have been expressing the view that I am in desperate need of a style makeover. The sight of me once again turning up for an event in T-shirt and denim must have been too much for them.
Anyway after an overdose of Trinny and Susannah terrorising fashion victims on TV, the Molineaux females decided to take me on a serious shopping expedition. After driving for what felt like several lunch times we arrived at the temple to mammon and found refuge in an outlet where the beverages end in a vowel and cost more than my last pair of jeans.
Suitably energized by cappuccinos and skinny lattes we set off in search of fabric designed for slimmer waistlines than mine.
I chose what appeared to be acceptable items for a man of my age and headed for the unisex changing rooms to see if any of them would make me look thinner; knowing only too well that the mirrors provided are designed to flatter.
I was stopped on my journey by daughter number one wishing to inspect my find. One by one she held each item of clothing up to the other members of our party and they all joined in the laughter.
After enjoying themselves at my expense they lead me away to another section of the store to be shown the type of trousers that I apparently ‘really liked’.
I muttered and moaned but still found myself trying them on and then coming out of the closet (in the old sense of the phrase), to do my own version of a fashion show. After telling me that I looked fantastic and that they made me look years younger they were kind enough to ask me what I thought of them.
‘Call me old fashioned’, I said ‘But I like the notion that I can FADE my own denim ‘after’ I have bought the jeans’. They looked at me as if my two score years and seven had afforded me no right to an opinion.
Not to be defeated the girls encouraged, or should that be harangued, me to try on the second pair of their selection. I emerged this time with several areas of flesh showing as the jeans in question were ripped in at least three places and both the pockets and the hems were frayed making them look like the pair that I had thrown away just two weeks earlier.
‘It is the fashion’, said my youngest ‘Everybody is wearing them’.
I tried once again to voice my objections.
‘Call me old fashioned’, I said ‘But I like the notion that I can RIP my own denim ‘after’ I have bought the jeans’.
This time my wife agreed with my complaint; pointing out to the girls that they were trying too hard to make me look younger.
We left the store without making a purchase only to enter another, seemingly identical, shop. It seemed to me that, even though I was the central figure of the day, I wasn’t really needed.
I made my escape and found a gadget store; joining all the other husbands who I presume had run away from similar shopping treats, I imagined owning a remote control spitfire and a walkie talkie watch.
My mobile phone rang and interrupted my enjoyment of a plasma ball; it was my wife complaining that I wasn’t putting as much effort in the day as they were.
When I arrived at the department store the females were loaded up with enough clothes to kit out an army.
You might think that I would have been daunted by this sight but I had a cunning plan; I was ready to agree to eight out of the first ten items I tried on whatever they looked like. It seemed the path of least resistance and would speed our journey to lunch.
It is for this reason that I sit here writing wearing brand new faded and a pink T-shirt. You might think that I am defeated but I take comfort in the fact that I refused to by the ‘man bag’ that they insisted were all the rage these days.
Faded Jeans
Hers, Mine or Ours
During our twenty-nine years of marriage I have noticed that my wife likes to claim ownership of certain things whilst rejecting others.
Whilst not wanting to step into the murky waters of sexism, I am assured by many of my male friends that she is not alone in this regard.
Just a few days ago she used the word 'my' when describing 'our' bedroom.
Granted there have been a number of nights over the last three decades when I have been banished to the sofa for some snoring related offence. Even so, I am sure that I should have equal share in its occupancy.
Now I think about it my presence in our bedroom is limited to a small proportion of it. I have just worked out that with the 18 inches square of my bedside cabinet and the hook behind the door I can only claim around four percent of the room.
Once our youngest daughter left for university my bride suggested I store my clothes in her old wardrobe; to be honest it is useful having my clothes available when I have to leave early for work. Fortunately I still have occupancy of an eighteen strip of our king size bed.
As far as the bathroom is concerned I do have half a shelf in the cabinet but where I do have the most space is on the shelf that contains reading materials. And, although my wife likes to purge the contents every now and then, I have a favourite sports book, a comedian's biography, and an electronics catalogue.
Even with this attempted take over bid Mrs M still calls it her bathroom. I need to work harder.
Over the years I have come to terms with my dessert being known as 'ours' when we are at a restaurant but this reshaping of our world is a little too much.
As I type I am reminded that my bride has made claim to two thirds of our sofa as she reclines next to me; she is trying to convince me that I can type and tickle her feet at the same time.
When I ask Mrs M why she feels the need to call so many things hers rather than ours she responds she tells me that it is a trade off. She gets the pretty things and I get the functional items. Apparently, because I love to cook I have ownership of two cupboards in the kitchen.
At this point she announce to me 'From now on you shall be known as lord of the pans'. I think I deserve more than mockery.
I responded by saying that I was just off to the pub to spend some money from 'my' joint bank account.
Feeling ill but still keeps her dignity
Mrs M and I have been a little unwell over the last two weeks. It seems that having avoided our entire coughing and sneezing family members during the Christmas period, we have caught the tail end of some bug trying its best to make us miserable just before spring arrives.
It is unusual for my wife to feel ill as, being a nurse, she seems to have built up a healthy amount of resistance to common bugs over the years. We have now, however, developed the same symptoms and as a result we have stereo sickness.
I don't want to appear selfish but being under the weather at the same time as your partner only adds to the complications; I now have to share the attention and sympathy with another person.
Our malady started with a slight sore throat and a cough that tended to sound like one of those false noises trying to convince others that we were not well. For a while it seemed that we would perform this drama in sync with each other.
That is where the similarity ends. Mrs M is a good patient and suffers in relative silence. I employ all my amateur dramatic skills to ensure that everyone knows the pain I am going through.
In a similar way I ensure that the scene is complete by looking as ill as I feel; Unshaven chin and sticky up hair until I become Stig of the Dump. My wife, however, still seems to maintain her natural amount of grace even through the most trying of circumstances.
Even after one rather painful and heavy session of nausea Mrs M, almost by instinct, picked up a brush as she returned to bed and tidied her hair. Even when we had to visit the emergency doctor in the middle of the night a couple of nights ago she still managed to look stylish and presentable whilst at the same time feeling ill and feverish.
Determined to see the positive side my bride took the opportunity of weighing herself after about three days of not eating exclaiming 'there must be some upside to being ill'.
She has obviously been in some pain and thus unable to function normally, yet she is still unwilling to let go of all the marks of dignity.
Not so I; other than the odd gargle with mouthwash my usual routines have been put on hold until I get back to wanting bacon again. (A sure sign of health in my book)
I mentioned the idea of bacon to Mrs M and she didn't seem too impressed. She ran off to brush her hair again.
