The only problem with going out to beautiful places, dressed as the middle classes, is that there is always ironing to be done afterwards.
I do not bother ironing the clothes we wear every day, because as it has been eloquently put by somebody before me, it would be like polishing one of Roger Poopy’s accidents on the carpet.
Normally we are scruffy. Nobody is looking at us, and so there is no need to be anything else. Indeed, the only people who are looking at us, being customers in the taxi, get very huffy if we are better dressed than they are. This happens sometimes, when Mark wears a shirt and his nice tweed jacket. Customers like to feel that we are of the servile classes, and feel uncomfortable if we are not. Lots of people remark on my accent, which is more middle class than they expect, and refuse to believe, in defiance of all the evidence, that I am genuinely a taxi driver.
Generally they want to know what I really do. I tell them that I am a ballerina.
In any case, it is a comfortably down-at-heel way of getting along with life, enabling us to be untroubled by oily smears or bleach splashes or dog-related misfortunes, and we are quite happy with our lot.
Nevertheless it has become very apparent that although we have a very respectable collection of smart clothes for middle class moments, in the normal daily run of events, we are becoming scruffier than even we would like.
We have not bothered to purchase clothes since before the bat-flu era, and this is going to need to be remedied in the fairly near future. This is because although we don’t mind wearing our clothes since you can’t see them in the dark anyway, it is becoming embarrassing to hang them on the washing line.
I have made a shopping list.
We need new T shirts, new vests and new socks. I am going to purchase some before Christmas, watch this space.
I contemplated purchasing some in Asda today, but did not because all garments previously purchased in Asda have worn into holes practically during the first week.
Also by then I had already spent all my money.
Far be it from me to start a panic amongst you, but I have been reading hints on the mighty Internet that there might be a wine shortage.
This is almost as troubling the fuel shortage, I can tell you. I am watching the situation with bated breath, and waiting for Boris to tell us that there is No Need To Panic.
I imagine that he will not say that until he has first popped round to Asda in his own account and replenished his wine box cupboard before the queues start. Government ministers do this, but they are not supposed to, because it is called insider trading, and it is not fair.
I have been determined not to be outdone by Boris, and so today, before he has even had chance to get his own ironing done after his sojourn at the Midland, I popped into Asda and bought four boxes.
This is a prudent measure in any case, because we are expecting Lucy to visit next week.
I thought wistfully that it was stocking up for Christmas, but of course it isn’t. It is barely stocking up for October.
All the same, it is quite a pleasing feeling. It is good to think that I am no longer a hostage to the slings and arrows of outrageous wine importers.
I bought a bottle of sherry as well.
I wonder if Boris managed to remember to do that.
