Mr T sits across from me in the kitchen of the main house, smoking a fag and drinking coffee. Legs akimbo.
‘Blimmin’ ‘eck!’ I say, ‘you simply cannot wear those jeans anymore!’
‘But, I love these jeans, and they do me fine for work.’ He replies, defensively.
‘Let me take a photo of the holes in the seams and the crutch and then …’
‘Don’t be a twat! Gerroff me!’
Exasperated, I squeak ‘I’m not the twat, you are indecent. They’ve got to go, you look like a perve, look, and I can nearly see all your bits. Plus, there are worn out patches on the legs.’ I nag, apparently.
While he’s away for a few days I order him some new ones from the M£S website – one pair black and one pair blue, which will be delivered by 28th March. Good-o.
I rake the bedroom floor for washing to put into the machine, and find the forlorn jeans. I go to throw them in the bin. Relenting, I wash them. And IRON them. For God’s sake! Because I am worried he’ll not have any to wear if the new ones don’t arrive sharpish. And, his bum does look particularly gorgeous in them …
This morning, I am sitting in bed, sipping my first cuppa of the day ah, nectar. Enter Mr T. He has found his pile of ironing (I wash, I iron, I don’t put away.) He is bearing his precious, pervie jeans in his outstretched arms; his face a picture of joy and happiness.
He strokes them reverently; eyes alight, reminding me of the magic of Christmas.
‘Well, summer’s coming and I’ll need to keep cool,’ he says. Then he proceeds to refold them, stroking them all the while. He places them in his drawer, saving them for best.