Fashionista

My Dear Fellow,

It is Er Indoors’s work leaving do tomorrow night and she bought me new clothes for the occasion. This is annoying. I have to do “Husband Fashion Parade” when I get in, so she can examine how things hang.

Behave yourself. You know to what I am referring.

I’ve never been much of a clothes-horse. Er Indoors tried to fashion me into one back when we first met. I went with it, it’s not like I have taste myself and I have to say, sometimes I would look into the mirror at my swish new clothes and think, “You sexy beast!”

Well, I’m not saying it happened often.

Of course, as the years go by, some things fall out while others paunch. Over the years, looking good has become less of a priority and stylish clothes have become less important. These days, I only wear clothes to avoid arrest and/or frostbite. But really, I could be wearing anything, of any colour or style. The only criteria I have for clothes is that they don’t give me “man-boobs” and I don’t have to hold my breath to button them up.

This irritates Er Indoors no end. She has never stopped thinking clothes are important. The only thing that stops me from bearing the full brunt of her fashion-sense is that Shetland Dad is 100 times worse than me. It drives Er Indoors SPARE.

“See these jeans?” he’ll say, proudly.
“They look a bit baggy,” replies Er Indoors.
“Twenty rand,” he’ll continue, ignoring her. “Picked them up in Jo’berg. Twenty rand. That’s about 80 pence. Not bad eh?”

And Er Indoors sighs. Because she realises that Shetland Dad’s only criteria for good fashion is now based on how cheap it is. Also, she knows that the last time he was in South Africa was 2005 and that the last time those jeans fit properly was when Tony Blair was in office.

“What do you think of these shoes?” continues Shetland Dad, coquettishly turning an ankle.
"Are they… brown…?” replies Er Indoors.
“Well they were,” explains Shetland Dad proudly. “But brown’s a bit informal for church so I polished them black.”

Er Indoors squints critically at the weirdly-polished, streaky-black, khaki-brown shoes. “Dad, I will BUY you another pair of shoes. Please burn those. For ****’s sake.”

I can’t help but feel that this is my future. Irritating my wife by being useless at clothes. I will slip into that role as easily as Shetland Dad slips into a pair of camouflage poo-shoes. I am resigned one day to living in the shed, purely to give the both of us peace. I can sit there quite happily in my “REAL MEN LOVE CATS” t-shirt and stretchy pants, and she can look at pictures of me in my 30’s when I was a sexy beast.

So that is our future. In the meantime, I shall hold my breath, squeeze into my new black jeans and accompany Er Indoors on her night out. Because that’s what husbands do.

Parsones