Yesterday, unbeknown to yours truly, I spent the day wandering about the place with a huge tear in the rear of my shorts. The revelation only becoming apparent when undressing at eventide, when upon removing the aforementioned article I spotted a bloody big hole where once cloth’d lain.
Mercifully, the adornment of boxer shorts’d negated against spending the day flashing a bare gluteus maximus to anyone in close vicinity. However, the root cause of this not unsubstantial tear still evades me. Particularly as I’ve absolutely no recollection of hearing material rip, or recall snagging my shorts, within the previous 24 hours.
Footnote – Gluteus maximus not to be confused with Skegness balloon bender Maximus Gluteus who forms absolutely no part of my posterior!!
I can only imagine the catalyst to this sartorial damage was shuffling along the patio on my ass yesterday morning. My slug like motions undertaken while treating a timber fitting which lay on terra firma within the pergola area.
Anyhow, I’d like to apologise to anyone who spotted me out and about yesterday, In particular for any emotional trauma consequential of witnessing my arse hanging out of my shorts. Innocent as I was about the exposure, I do accept there’s things which a poor victim just can’t unsee.
This morning, after raising the subject of yesterday’s unwitting fashion statement, my mum’s personal carer mentioned she’d noticed the tear but assumed it was a fashion style I’d intentionally chosen.
I’d like to think I dress reasonably en vogue for my age. However, I’m surprised anyone’d think that I’d intentionally adapt my peacock suit to flash off under crackers through a gaping 6 inch shorts tear. I wouldn’t undertake that type of clothing bastardisation in my youth, ne’er mind in middle age.
Consequential of this episode, GJ Strachan wardrobe is down a pair of shorts. A much loved, heavily worn item of clothing which’ve accompanied me on many happy holiday. That being said, the cropped trousers’ existence wouldn’t have been a total rose garden…. After all, I’d wager frequent close contact with my ass isn’t amongst employment website LinkedIn’s most sought roles.
Later today my brother Ian will arrive from Gateshead, visiting our mother and his elder sibling for the weekend. With fine weather forecast over the next three days, I’m hoping he and me can use this tarry productively garden wise.
There are alleyways to clear/weed, wheelie bin stations to build and a stone path to lay, as Maggie’s garden revamp continues apace. The pergola area now taking on a more bespoke slant with the adding of metal movie signs and drink posters. Mally’s Bar (named after my late dad) taking shape into the quirky tribute I sought for the old man.
It’ll be good to see our kid at his approx 8pm eta. The takeaway curries have been ordered for delivery at 8.30pm and we’ll no doubt have a long catch up; after all it’s 2-3 months since we’ve seen each other.
Tomorrow, though, I shall remind him “There’s no I in brother! ” and set him a list of garden chores in recompense for the fact I’ve done most of mater’s horticultural work over this past year.
Despite being well within his rights, our kid’ll ignore the fact therere’s no adage advocating “There’s no I in brother!”, along with the fact I live with our mum and would/should be expected to undertake the lion’s share of gardening, and put in a good shift with spade and trowel. His calmness a behavioural trait which’s the very antitheses of his more erratic demeanour of yours truly.
Right I’m ending today’s chronicle as I’ve some replacement shorts to buy!…… As I speak shorts in department stores around the UK will be shoving each other to the front of shelfs, desperate to avoid partnership with my posterior.
