It had to happen. I’ve come home from the cleaners with the wrong trousers. Long and dark and in a bag. So I get them out this morning to put them on and immediately they don’t feel right and I know something’s wrong, and eventually I work out they have acquired pinstripes as well as a whole new texture , and finally, after a lot of head-scratching, I get around to looking at the label.
I am not Mrs Ronson. I’m pretty sure about that.
Also these trousers are too long. I am moved to comment on this to Adamantine Lady, as I am a fairly long fellow myself, and this may make identifying the owner of these errant trousers much easier. Really tall person, 6′6″ or more, walking around in their underpants looking pissed off.
Adamantine Lady: (pensively) (who has a minor thing going for really tall people) “Really? I think I’d like to meet Mr Ronson.”
Me: (With great smugness): “Mr Ronson? It says Mrs Ronson.” Yes, instead of acknowledging the extremely likely possibility that these trousers have been taken to the cleaners by some gentleman’s wife, I prefer to explore the extremely unlikely possibility that Brigitte Nielson’s 6′6″ Amazon half-sister a) exists and b) has her trousers cleaned in Chelmsford. There may be a certain wish-fulfilment to this line of thought. By the time I am finished with pointing out this possibility, I am the king of smug. Ha, let that teach you to jump to conclusions!
Adamantine Lady: (precisely exactly as pensively as before) “Really? I think I’d like to meet Mrs Ronson.”
Exit author under a cloud of hoist-by-your-own-petard-ness.
Mr/Mrs Ronson, I have your trousers. I do apologise. I will aim to return them shortly.