Local weight: 12 stone 13 pounds (181 lbs / 82.1 kg). In-laws bathroom scales obviously malfunctioning.
Spent yesterday afternoon shopping in the small town nearby. Or rather, being teased with streets and malls and more malls of shops and more shops – with nothing worthwhile buying inside.
After a customary bout of electronics shopping to keep Dr B. quiet for a while, even if it was the cheapest set-top Freeview box for his granny (yes, nan is going digital), we hit the high street.
Imagine my excitement when I saw all the familiar establishments I get my threads from: Cancer Research UK, The British Heart Foundation, Barnardos, and a few more local charities I'd never heard from – and probably cheaper than in London! I set off for my hunt for a pair of jeans my size (I have lost some weight and nothing fits, as half the Royal Vauxhall Tavern realised last Sunday when Dr B. pulled my still-buttoned up trousers down to demonstrate). Or failing that, a belt. And possibly a new top.
Imagine my face when, after I left the fifth shop empty-handed, I realised that fashion in rural Staffordshire differs somewhat from down in the Big Smoke.
For starters, you have to be careful where you go. As the decor of the average small-town shop is somewhat basic, you will easily find yourself in a straight full-price store thinking it's a charity shop. 'River Island? Is that some sort of flood-related charity?'
Even then, you may forgo all hopes of charity shop designer jeans for a fiver in mint condition. Are you mad? Pople here buy jeans and wear them until they develop holes, which may take years – as opposed to London where people wear jeans until the following season, when a new pattern of designer holes takes over. Or, as I just noticed with horror, until a new unflattering cut is unleashed to the podgy masses: ladies and gentlemen, drainpipes are back – the worst possible news for people with footballers' legs like me.
So I resigned to getting a new top but I was confronted with rail after rail of football shirts and not much else. I was starting to develop a not so good opinion of people here, who cannot even swear allegiance to a team for more than a few months. I was reminded that new shirts are released every season, and fans get the latest home and away sets every year. So now you know how priorities are arranged here.
Even the highlight of the shopping trip (TK Maxx, a whole store full of end-of-lines and stock) proved disappointing: I thought I found The Perfect Jeans (Lee bootcut Roscoe, my size, 66.6 per cent off), tried them on and realised that 'my size' is now too loose at the waist.
Ultimately found solace in one of the many cake shops, where tea, carrot cake and apple and toffee pie were served by the grumpiest Saturday-jobber ever.
After which, the jeans might eventually have fitted properly.
