My morning ablutions done, I scurried back to bedroom to dry and don appropriate casual apparel for an apparently casual day. Spraying copious amounts of Lynx (awful stuff but beggars cannot be choosers) under arms and over torso I dragged a white T-shirt on then tugged open my underwear draw only to find, just like Goldilocks and the Three Bears, that nothing was there. Thinking that perhaps dear old mater had accidently shoved said pantaloons into sock draw I checked to see. Nope, nothing, just socks. With no other recourse to take I called out to she who rules the roost.
No answer, just the sound of air being dragged forcefully through dentafixed dentures.
A silence less golden and more stubborn floated back across the balmy breakfast hour.
“There is no need to shout. I was just resting my eyes.”
‘Resting my eyes’ my arse; taking another forty winks more like.
“Haven’t seen my underwear have you?” I asked matter-of-factly as though one might see a herd of pants chewing cud on the front lawn, as though it were in fact a common occurrence to spot a murder of pants, or whatever the collective noun is for undergarments, resting on the telegraph wire. The answer I received was most alarming.
“Yes. They were looking tatty so I have given them to the poor.”
“GIVEN THEM TO THE POOR?”
“Well, not so much given them to the poor as to a local charity.”
“But, but, but,” I spluttered trying to pinch myself awake and rise from this awful dream, “why?”
“As I said they were looking tatty.”
In truth three pairs, the posh Calvin Klein ones (I only add this to show a fading degree of good taste as all my others come from local supermarkets) were showing the signs of needing replacing. The others were all purchased last Christmas and are as good as, well, fresh underpants. My Mother dear then added more info to the unraveling tale and garments of.
“I thought I might buy you some new pairs.”
Fine thought I but since Mum is incapable now of going shopping on her own that meant I would have to go to Next, or Sainsburys (never buy pants from M&S – no support in vital zone means tackle flops from side to side like a dead chicken in a carrier bag). This meant my going commando which could prove injurious to oneself, unsightly for passers-by and possibly the breaking of some indecency law or other.
The only lame thing I found able to mutter was, “I see.” Then I thought some more and found some reserve of courage,
“Which charity shop is now the proud owner of my underpants?” I asked hesitantly fearing the answer.
“Oh, I haven’t given them away as yet. I put them in a plastic bag and hung the bag in the garage.”
I seek a moral to this tale but fail to find one. The only dim recollection I can bring to mind are those words of blighted wisdom mother used to throw my way with a withering stare when I was a teenager and which has nothing to do with the above story whatsoever…
“Boys who masturbate go blind.”
Have I told you about my cataracts?
.In Cockney rhyming slang a 'Tea Leaf'' is a thief. I wasn't suggesting my mother is a perforated old bag filled with desiccated leaves.
Russell Cuts the Corn From The Brewers Whiskers.