You should see my underpants

It will not have escaped the attention of my regular readers that I am not slow to drop large amounts of cash on gadgets, particularly those involved in the process of taking photographs. What’s going on here? A massive pension, dealing drugs, money laundering for the Russian mob? The truth is more simple, you should see my underpants.

If you did, and I am not suggesting you do, you would discover a ragged selection of faded bits of cloth. I can’t recall when I last bought a new pair; and the same goes for all my clothes. Plus, the condo needs painting, we eat cheap food, I drive a truck and I can’t remember our last holiday. In short, the money that I do have is spent on the important things in life; gadgets.

She who must be obeyed has no problem with the simple life; and she is now working six days a week so has little in the way of what could be called a life anyway. But she does have a problem with the way I look. Not so much the ragged underpants, more the faded T-shirts, the holed jeans and the scruffy sandals. This is precisely the way I like to dress, and is precisely the way she wishes I didn’t.

Occasionally she blitzes the very small area of the wardrobe allocated to my clothing (the rest being given over to her “an outfit for every day of the year” concept). Beloved T-shirts are discarded on the quite unreasonable basis that they are full of holes, covered in immoveable stains and worn so thin that you can see my nipples. She then comes home with new clothing for me to wear. This is great because it means I avoid clothes shopping, which I hate; and I also avoid paying, which I also hate unless the item includes glass and an F stop.

Today is one of those days, but this time I have to present myself at a certain time at a certain mall; where I will find a selection of items at the checkout, chosen by she who must be obeyed, which I will be required to pay for. Not an ideal result; but at least I don’t have to waste time by actually having to choose my own clothes.

With the clothing crisis about to be solved, there is another aspect of my appearance that she deems in need of attention; my facial hair. Every so often she prostrates me and then attacks every bit of hair from the neck upwards. Beard, moustache, eyebrows, nose hair, ear hair, head hair; it all comes under her remit to tidy me up.

We went out for breakfast this morning and I could see her studying my face, and not in a “Oh my God, I am going to love that face until I die” sort of way; more in a “why did I marry this scruffy git” sort of way. Finally, she came out with:

“May I have a quick one on your face when we get home?”

I understood what she meant. So did the guy sat behind her, except the look on his face indicated his understanding was different from mine. It seemed a shame to disillusion him, so I replied “only if you cover your bum in baby oil first”, which she didn’t understand but Mr. Horrified certainly did.

I couldn’t help thinking that he would be even more shocked if he could see my underpants.

Comments 🔗

2012-03-04 | Spanky says

Now I get the previous picture of the Sad Rasta. It was you! Makes perfect sense now.

2012-03-04 | Spike says

Well deduced. Please don’t tell anyone.

2012-03-05 | Grant says

Hmm, I suspect complicity. Andrew Drummond’s latest column also contains references to sex and underware…