A Pipe, Some Slippers, but no Boring Cardigan

Her Indoors dragged me into town this morning for sundry errands which will be of no interest to any of you. Suffice it to say they cost money. They always do. While I was there, I thought it was time I treated myself to a new cardigan.

 

I’ve reached that time of life where the thing I value most is comfort, and I have this grand image of myself as a pipe and slippers man. It’s not strictly accurate. I smoke cigarettes, and I rarely have anything on my feet until I step on one of the dog’s abandoned chews, whereupon I curse the house down and then dig out me shoes or slippers.

Notwithstanding all that, as you can see, I have the pipe and the slippers. The pipe is a superb prop when I want to look intelligent, and the slippers have seen better days, but what the hell, they’re comfortable.

All I needed to complete the image was a boring cardigan. Can I get one? Can I hell as like.

I tramped all over town looking for one, to absolutely no avail. I can get windjammers, fleeces, hoodies, V-necked and crew-necked jumpers, even old-fashioned, tedious sleeveless pullovers, the likes of which I haven’t worn since I was about seven years old.

But I cannot get a boring, button-up or zip-up cardigan with two pockets, one for the pipe, the other for a box of matches.

Asking the missus is a waste of time. We were in the café in one department store, and while I finished my cup of tea I asked her to check on the price of televisions. She disappeared, came back ten minutes and told me they had some cracking lampshades at low prices, but she’d forgotten how much the TV sets were. On that basis I daren’t ask her to go for boring cardigans, for fear that she’d get a price on pleated skirts.

I even called in at a gents’ outfitters on the High Street, a place renowned for its conservatism. The fact that they still prefer to be known as a gents’ outfitters rather than a clothing shop tells you all you need to know about them. Their idea of a hoodie is a duffel coat three decades older than the one Jonathan Creek wears. They insisted there was no call for boring, button-up cardigans, and tried to sell me a three piece, double-breasted pinstripe suit, like the one my granddad was buried in.

On the way home, depressed and skint (what else is new?) The Empress reminded me that I do have a boring cardigan. She bought it for me seven or eight years ago. And she’s right.

But I can’t find it and anyway, it’s so old and scruffy that even the dog turned his nose up at it when I offered it him as a bed.

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