You'd think a nice little earner like me would at least be able to
count on having clean underwear, wouldn't you? Alas, I took Mr S
to Melbourne this week for a corporate jolly, and when I arrived back,
solo, at our city flat, I discover that in all the excitement Mr S has
failed to re-stock my underwear drawer.
Flabbergasted, I sit on the bed so that I can begin panicking, and from
that position I can see that his underwear drawer is full.
I have mentioned in this column previously that Mr S and I are both
shaped like light bulbs. That's true, as far as it goes, but I am
now obliged to confess that I am a much bigger light bulb than Mr. S.
However, nothing daunted, I proceed to try on his reg grundies to see
if I can find a pair that fits. I can get the cotton boxers on,
but clearly any attempt to sit down would be catastrophic. I find
a soft, stretchy pair of Calvin Klein's which will do the job, and
making a mental note to speak severely to Mr S, I finish dressing and
leave for work.
I walk to work these days - to keep the blood-pressure at bay. I
follow a well-known walking route where I am regularly overtaken by
fit, beautiful young people who all appear to be wearing their own
underwear.
In my mind I keep repeating the mantra, "please don't let me get hit by
a bus, please don't let me get hit by a bus". It would be just
too hard to explain why I'm wearing Y-fronts.
Ahead of me I see a singular vision. A young man, tall, thin,
bespectacled, and wearing a kilt. Now kilts at 8.00am are an
unusual sight. Everyone else his age is in lycra, with their civvies in
a backpack. But this bloke has teamed his kilt with a blue
work shirt and tie, a back pack, but no sporran, and an umbrella.
The whole ensemble suggests a distinct lack of social skills.
I wonder what he is wearing under his kilt. He's probably praying that he doesn't get hit by a bus, too.
As I pull abreast of him, I fantasize about us both getting hit by a bus. Much hilarity in the emergency room I suspect.
Mr. S would be sorry then that he hadn't kept my underwear drawer in
better repair. Son Matt would be mortified to discover that,
while his mother certainly never wore army boots, she met her maker in
a pair of Y fronts. Daughter Anne would draw comfort from the
fact that at least they were a designer brand.
I decide to cut through the park. At least there are no
buses. I call Mr S on the mobile to give him a bit of feedback on
the quality of his housekeeping. Do I get understanding? Is
he sorry? It appears not from the unseemly guffawing coming down
the phone at me. He'll have to be punished. I know - I'll
write a column.
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Change of Life 
