Trousers

It is wedding season and I have to go to one of them. This means a trip to Italy which is a good thing. Unfortunately, it also means I need new clothes and so I find myself walking down Jermyn Street in Central London on a joyless quest for trousers. It is a mild day, not warm, but for some reason I am sweating. A lot. Usually, I consider myself to be entirely normal in the sweating stakes...and quite a snappy dresser. Not today. I observe the following:

• the trousers I am wearing are clearly too big for me – frustratingly, the fabric around my pockets is blowing slightly in the breeze;
• what appears to be an oil stain has made a home for itself a few inches to the right of my crotch;
• I have a sweat patch emerging right in the middle of my light blue shirt and, though I am wearing a jacket, it pains me to admit that I am walking along with what can only be called a ‘sweat target.’

As I walk along I notice a few sympathetic looks from passers-by. I stare back imploringly, hoping that they can see that I don’t know what has happened any more than they do.

I sense my sweat patch getting worse but I can’t look down as that would draw attention. I want many things at this moment, none of which is attention! I consider the options. Perhaps I should take off my jacket? That would help me cool down and perhaps the sweat target would disappear. But how quickly? How quickly do sweat targets disappear? This is definitely an under-researched area. I estimate perhaps two to three hundred people would pass the sweat target in its full, exposed glory before full evaporation. Perhaps a group of tourists would take photos. I opt to leave the jacket on.

I slide into a trouser shop. The man behind the counter glances up and observes my big trousers and oil stain. He looks slightly like an annoyed and well-fed Elmer Fudd. I have a sudden urge to explain everything. I want him to understand that I am just a normal human man, but intuition tells me there will be no comfort here. Fudd remains silent and raises an eyebrow enquiringly. He is probably hoping that I will just ask directions or something. For a micro-second, I consider asking the way to the nearest hospital – perhaps I could imply that I was dying and with little time to waste worrying about oil, sweat or big trousers.

I regain my confidence and ask if he sells grey trousers that aren’t part of a suit. I specify this because I want to avoid any confusion - I am not in the market for an entire suit and want this to be known from the outset. I am a man who knows what he wants, a force to be reckoned with. Fudd points a finger to the rack of grey trousers directly in front of me, clearly labelled with a big square sign that says ‘Trousers – Grey.’ I nod at the man. He doesn’t nod back. This is because the man thinks that I am an imbecile.

I grab a pair of trousers and head to the changing room. I pull the trousers off the hanger and notice that, although the waist size is correct, the length could only fit a man with freakishly long legs. I worry. Fudd has now positioned himself directly outside the curtain and tells me, ‘Don’t worry about the length. We turn them up to fit your leg, Sir.’ He puts an emphasis on the word ‘Sir’ that is both unpleasant and unnecessary. Almost as if I am not really a ‘Sir’. I see my face in the mirror and it looks like an angry face. I suspect Fudd is being patronising. Does he tell everyone about the long legs or just me? Clearly Fudd has taken against me and my honour is being tested. I consider asking him to duel.

I step out of the changing room with the ends of the trouser legs flapping behind me, determined to assert myself, and see my wife walking in to the shop. She is here to help me pick trousers because she thinks me incapable of picking the right size trousers on my own - the weight of history is in her favour.

‘Why are you so sweaty?’ she demands.

Armed with no suitable response I just shrug.

She peers critically at the trousers as Fudd waves an evil hand towards a full-length mirror. He is clearly unsure about the waist-size and jabs his finger into my waistband. We meet eyes. I know that I am sweaty and now, I fear, so does he. I consider saying something to ease the tension - perhaps a witty anecdote about my friend James. Best not, I think wisely. Fudd makes a sound that I can only describe as a dry retch and removes his finger slowly from my waistband. I feel that we have formed some sort of bond. Not a happy bond, like a man has with his dog. More the sort of bond that a hostage might have with a kidnapper. Finally, I feel in control.

My wife, unaware of all that has passed, circles and prods a finger into my left love handle to test its fatness. Apparently satisfied, she spots the tie-rack and hurries off like a magpie. The man, sensing a sale, follows her and, as suddenly as it was formed, our delicate bond is gone.

Ten minutes later we have left the shop. I have new trousers and my wife is admiring the tie she has picked out for me. We pass a few steps down the street and bumbling towards us is my mate James. James is wearing a T-Shirt bearing red and yellow lettering of subtlety, beauty, and poetry (‘It is my duty to please your booty!’). He is half-shaved and has surpassed me in the sweating stakes. I suspect he has surpassed everyone.

I open with, ‘Profound T-shirt, my friend.’

‘Quite big trousers!’ he expertly counters. ‘Where did you get that tie? Wouldn't mind grabbing one for myself if you don't mind us being tie brothers?'

In life there are rare moments of perfect bliss. Rare confluences of action and opportunity. This is one of them...

I smile and point at Fudd’s shop.

James pulls up the bottom of his shirt to wipe his round, sweaty face, and heads straight in.