This Post Is Pants
I should really be taking a blog break today.
I posted a lot yesterday, mainly because I had a burst pipe and spent most of the day waiting for the plumber. Not that I'm implying that these posts can just be tossed off with one eye on the door for a man in a boiler suit practising deep sighs and low whistling sounds.
Because the leak was in my airing cupboard I need to spend today re-washing everything that was in there before it is permanently stained with dirty, metallic water from the central heating system.
I also need to throw out vast quantities of clothes that I had no idea were in the airing cupboard.
There was an embarrassing moment when the plumber held aloft some ancient Paisley pyjamas. His 16 year old assistant clearly thought these were as much of an historical curiosity as a pair of long johns would have been. I assured him that I hadn't worn pyjamas for at least twenty years but I don't think he believed me. I added that I either slept naked or in my underpants but the boy's expression said 'too much information'.
The youth also toyed with an old candlewick bedspread and I explained that in days of yore people didn't have duvets and put these things on top of their beds. What a pity the boy isn't doing GCSE Social History instead of a Modern Apprenticeship in plumbing.
Fortunately, the plumber didn't stumble upon some miniscule briefs that I think I once bought in Marks and Spencer when I didn't have the right glasses on.
I didn't mind them seeing several pairs of striped boxer shorts since that would reassure them that I was a regular kind of dude.
However, their pristine condition might have given a clue that they have never been worn. I bought them only because a boyfriend was sarcastic about my underwear. But I cannot wear boxer shorts because they produce, er, tumescence. Too much information again. But if all males suffered from this physiological abnormality, the Viagra manufacturers would go out of business and boxer shorts would be sold in chemists.
I am currently agonising over whether to throw away a single duvet, slightly soiled (from the water leak). Now I have a King Size bed I am unlikely to use it again unless I provide sanctuary to an Eastern European asylum seeker on my living room floor. All things considered, that seems unlikely unless he had sailed up the village stream on an inflatable dinghy having taken a wrong turning on the Thames.
Patroclus is writing a vetcom. This has confused her American readers who think it's about Vietnam veterans. Do Americans use some other term for veterinary surgeons?
In the spirit of generosity which characterises the blogosphere, I offer her this true story:
I was sitting in the vet's waiting room with my dog. The woman next to me was sobbing quietly. After a while she apologised and, between sobs, managed to say: "It's my cat. I shouldn't be such a fool."
Not at all, I said, and came out with the usual stuff about how attached we become to our pets. I added that I would probably also cry my eyes out if my dog had died.
The woman looked puzzled.
"But my cat hasn't died", she said. "She's only here to have her claws trimmed."