My Mum always said that things run in threes. And so it is with trousers.
Saturday saw me in Bristol with the 'favourite, wonderful' daughter (she's also the 'very worst, shockingly awful' daughter and the 'pretty good' daughter as she is the only daughter I have - well, in fact, only step daughter I have) and her fiancé, trying on trousers for their wedding. I might add that she won't be wearing trousers; no, she will be the one in the long beautiful dress.
This trial fitting needed to be attended to as I was a mad four inches out in my waist measurement. As Lord Elpus has once mentioned, I think there are a lot of these Chinese tape-measures out there these days. That was my first Trouser experience. The trousers will be in a fetching bright grey. Happiness.
My second trouserly tousle was this afternoon; this time trying on a dark grey stripy pair, interestingly two inches nearer my correct tummy measurement but intriguingly one inch shorter in the leg department, but seemingly a perfect length. It's an age thing. I am the incredible shrinking man. These trousers are intended for my eldest, most wonderful son's wedding (you have guessed it already; he is also the eldest incorrigible rogue of a son, and the pretty okay bloke eldest son). Unsurprisingly he won't be wearing a long beautiful dress and neither will his younger brother, the best man: We will all be wearing the same trousers. Well not exactly the same trousers, but you get the idea.
This takes us inevitably, yes you have guessed, it to the third trouser tribulation.
I received a call on my telephone that, after my customary greeting, consisted of swishing and gurgling noises from the caller. I talked to the mystery caller's trouser pocket for a little while. It should be said that this type of conversation will not be uncommon to anyone who has a name starting with 'A' as mobile telephones in trouser pockets have a habit of dialling the first name on the caller's list. I went through my normal procedure of first of all talking reasonably and then raising my voice and then whistling loudly into my phone.
The cat just laughed.
Eventually I talked to an apologetic chap out walking with his terriers, taking time out from the tyranny of his office. He was delighted the trouser pixies had decided to call me. This gentleman is the Coffee Connoisseur, the Beau Brummel, the Literary Leviathan of the TGO Challenge.
With all his literary low-down, he offered me a cookbook to partner my new wok purchase. The China Town Chinese supermarket basement room had come up trumps yesterday and supplied me with a wonderful wok for the princely sum of £6.33 Tonight's meal was a culinary masterpiece, even if I say so myself.
If this goes on, I might soon need to be fitted for larger trousers.