Sunday 31 January 2010
Gordon has never been a ‘dedicated follower of fashion’, much to the girls’ disgust and my despair. He wears what he wants, when he wants: he can’t bear it when his jeans touch his shoes or his jumpers are ‘baggy’. He’d sooner stand naked in the snow than wear a tie although he will relent slightly for weddings and funerals, and hates shirts with collars because they touch his neck. Are you getting the picture? My husband works at home in a very dirty job and therefore wears what he considers suitable. Unfortunately, in the past few years (as he’s got older) this has mutated itself into dungerees for work – over everything else! Not top-half of dungerees under jumper, but out there for the world to see, bib and braces, the full works. I used to protest, but gave up when I saw it was a lost cause and although I inwardly groan when he says “but they’re comfortable. At least they don’t cut me in half around the waist”, which is such an old-person thing to say, on the whole I let him get on with it. He also has a complete disregard for where he puts himself whilst wearing his dungerees. Flat on his back under a tractor. Up to his shoulder behind a cow he’s AI-ing. Just sitting on a grubby seat in the workshop that’s covered in oil, dung, sawdust and cobwebs. On top of that he puffs constantly on a pipe and if you’ve ever known a pipe-smoker you’ll know how much ‘spillage’ you get from one! Burning tobacco drops out regularly – most pipe smokers have tell-tale singe holes down the front of their clothes, and there’s a lot of black, sticky ash involved. OK, having painted that picture for you I’ll backtrack slightly.
Yesterday I picked up my new car. There she is in the photo, shiny and new, smelling of polished leather upholstery and gleaming as a result of her recent valetting. I drove her home from the garage with suitable caution, having driven an automatic diesel for the past six or so years and now having to get used to a manual petrol car all over again. Last night we went to a party and I was so determined to drive her home myself that I drank soft drinks all night. Trust me, those of you who know me will realise how much of a sacrifice that is, especially since I’m partial to a glass or two of red wine. This morning Gordon announced he was going to visit his mother and could he borrow my car?
“Are you changing?” I asked.
“No, why?” was the reply.
“Because unless you change out of your work clothes, you’re not getting into my car. Perhaps you could change into a pair of jeans?” He made a face.
“That’s not very fair!”
“I don’t care”, I said. “You’re not making my car dirty.”
“Fine! Forget it!”
He stormed off and climbed into the very considerably grubby Land Rover. I almost felt guilty.
But then I didn’t.