We’ve got some fantastic friends who moved up from London last year, they are very accostomed to going out for meals and the like, a lot, and as they are good friends of ours and wish to experience all the fineries and wineries that Worcestershire offers. This is where we come in, being Worcestershire immigrants of over 20 years now we have some experience in the why’s and wherefores resulting in our calendar being the fullest its been in a good few many years. Friday night was no exception as our destination was “The Green Cow”. The food was amazing but i’m no restaurant critic, I’m no Grace Dent, and so what you are going to be reading about, oh blindingly faithful hounds is what preceded the meal.
Fancy restaurant means fancy clothes, of which I have precious few, the fancy clothes I have are wheeled out every time I have to wear them, and they’re starting to look not so fine any more, slightly shabby, baggy and a bit lose at the seams, like Bagpuss was. So in my wisdom I set off to TK Maxx, the jumble sale shop on the High Street, where I once purchased a pair of olive green Doc Martins, and so since then I fully believe i’ll find other treasures, treasures I have found; 2 bird mugs, but nothing really good to wear anymore. I’ve got a cupboard of great mugs and a wardrobe of fading glamour. Thinking proper trousers, and a linen shirt, I picked a couple of cool t-shirts too and made my way to the changing room, manned by the grumpiest student attendant, not interested in me, my clothes, the changing room or the shop, not even thinking about the friday night out, dead behind the sallow grey eyes, dried up by over use of his phone no doubt. I’m given a plastic counter with a 4 on it and a hole in the corner, i’ve never known what I have to do with this, so i just put it down under the t-shirts. I’m stood in front of the mirror in my boxers, faded like the rest of my wardrobe and struggle to hitch the trousers up to my waist. Well the bottom of the trousers can’t go over my calves (i’ve been walking a lot) and consequently won’t go anywhere near my waist, the shirt likewise closes tightly over my stomach and i look at my self, contorted in an uncomfortable depiction of Michaelangelo’s David, penis not in view. Shopping trip ruined, I swiftly jumped back into my own clothes, comfortable and loose, picked up the new stuff and flounced out, like some really ineffectual tempest , giving everything to the automaton attendant, mumbling no words as I walked out of the shop, he mumbled something back to me too, no idea what, just a standard mumble of departure.
So getting ready to go out and i’m dressed like a presenter of Top Gear, black jeans (tight, is there any other style these days?) and shirt (dark to disguise the gut), brown brogues (at least 10 years old, but comfy, like an old pair of shoes, which they actually are). Yep I look suitably middle aged, and Mrs T looks splendid, in a new holiday dress. Shit soon i’m going to have to pull my finger out and restyle my style. I should probably take advice.