Honey, does my butt look big in this?

There I was facing another typical Monday morning. I finished my shower and headed straight out the bathroom door. I noticed that I had stepped on something. Thankfully, it wasn’t one of my kids' Lego blocks or else my neighbours would have been rudely awoken by my tortured screams. The CIA think they’ve got it sorted with their waterboarding and fingernail-pulling. Well, have I got news for them. I can only assume they haven’t stepped on Lego blocks at 6 o’clock in the morning. It’s the definition of pain.

OK. To bring things back on track, after getting some focus on the carpeted floor, I realised that it was a pile of clothes. Mostly mine and some of my wife’s. Having been happily married for 8 years or so at this stage, I consider myself well versed in the art of deciphering my wife’s cryptic messages. This one was one of the easier ones to crack. The pile of clothes strategically placed between bathroom door and wardrobe door. So, unless I had suddenly developed the ability to float around like a 15-stone and goateed Tinkerbell, there was no chance in the world I was going to miss the clothes on the floor.

My hands are full with the kids. Bring your own clothes downstairs so that I can run them this morning. This message will NOT self-destruct in 15 seconds but if you don’t comply...

Affirmative, message understood. Robert Langdon and his Illuminati pals couldn’t hold a candle against my code-breaking skills!

I was running late already at this stage, so I put on my clothes and stared at the challenge that I faced near my feet. Do I get my sarong, convert it into a makeshift gym bag and carry all the clothes downstairs? No can do. My wife was doing whites today by the look of the collection on the floor and my sarongs were all dark coloured.

So, without thinking about it twice, I hastily bent down to grab all the clothes in one go. Wrong decision. Like the old Adam West Batman TV series, a big multi-coloured “KERRRAAACKKK” filled my view (or more accurately, my ears).

That was it. My second-last pair of good trousers in my suit collection was gone forever. Naturally, the size of my behind these days, is not to be blamed. Of course not. The gigantic-sized rip was surely down to shoddy workmanship and the lack of quality tailoring these days. Surely. Heh.

It wasn’t as if it was a designer suit or anything expensive. It’s just that I was holding-off on buying a replacement until I got myself that Sito Plus first. This is of course, ignoring the fact that my once charcoal trousers was so worn, it no longer matched the jacket it was sold with. Or, the fact that even the charity shops wouldn’t have taken it in as a donation in the first place.

Ah well, looks like the only winners in this tragedy are Messrs Marks and Spencer. I should be paying them a visit for a replacement shortly...