The Trousers

"No! Please tell me no!” I screamed, somewhat like a girl, admittedly, but this was life or death….. well… almost.
“I'm afraid it's true,” said Mrs Ed “I tried to convince them otherwise, but they wouldn't listen. It's a done deal.” Her efforts to sound sympathetic were just like the last two thirds of that word – pathetic.

“But I can't. I just can't!” I wailed, pulling tufts of hair out of my head, “Don't you remember February 2007? I swear I died at that hotel…. If it hadn't been for that waitress reviving me with that jug of cold water, you'd have lost me forever!”

“Hmmmmm…” said Mrs Ed. Rather too uncommittedly I thought.

Alas, she was right. A few frantic phone calls later I realised - There was no going back. I couldn't even feign illness and pull out of the function, because in a moment of beer-fortified weakness a week or two before I had agreed to be the Master of Ceremonies. And now I learned, with only two days to go, that it was 'Black Tie'….

Which meant one darned, cursed thing. I would have to wear….The Trousers.

The Trousers.

Many men in the Garden Route will sympathise, I'm sure. In fact I might even be so bold as to say that many of you will own a pair of The Trousers. But for the benefit of those who don't, let me explain.

So rare is it that we Garden Route Coastal Dwellers go to anything with a stricter dress-code than 'Please wear shoes, and at least ARRIVE in a shirt', that we are not equipped at all when a 'posh do' comes up. But don't think we are completely useless - shirts we can manage, and it's easy enough to buy a tie (black or otherwise) at the nearest Hospice shop…

But when it comes to the southern side of our bodies there is a problem. All we have to fall back on… or squeeze into… are 'The Trousers'.

That pair of black longs which were bought back when we were twenty five, for a wedding or a Christening or something equally glamorous. The same Trousers that were then left sulking in the wardrobe, where they lurked for the next seven years, planning our agony when the need finally arose to take them out again….. like some polyester cotton Gollum.

“We 's going to tightens rounds his tummies, and cuts off his bloodflow, my Precious!” they promise themselves in the darkness.

I think The Trousers shrink on purpose.

And it gets worse with each wearing, because, well, somehow we get a little larger around the midriff, don't we gents?

And we forget! How easily we forget the pain. Really, getting into The Trousers is just like child birth, except infinitely more painful, ask any man. Why? Because the agony of putting them on, and wearing them for any length of time, is all but wiped out by that awesome, euphoric bloodrush when you get to take them off again. Oh the joy, the button-popping paradise of finally being untrousered on the couch.

Indeed, once untrousered the nightmare of pain-memory doesn't come flooding back until years later, when you realise that you have to wear them again…..

The Trousers.

So, last weekend I sat on the bed and stared at them, hanging in the dark depths, leering at me. Them NASTY Trousers. Of course my jeans, my trusty, loving, fit-me-like-a-glove jeans lay in a faded blue heap on the floor, beckoning me to forget the foreign black trouser folly .
“C'mon, me ol' mate,” they silently intimated, in a warm and comfortable fashion, “Forget this black tie do. Put me on and we'll just walk down to the pub together. You and me. Like it always is….”

But I couldn't. Mrs Ed had already spent the best part of the day (best part meaning the time I was in my jeans) trying on everything in the house, garden, garage and shed before deciding on an outfit, and there was only an hour left for me to get ready.

I leapt to my feet and snatched the offending trews off the rail. It really couldn't be that hard could it? They were only trousers for goodness sake. And I had somehow managed to get them on for my niece's wedding four or five years ago.... hadn't I?

Thirty five minutes later they were almost over my knees.

“Perhaps we should putting more butter on your legs?” suggested Mrs Ed. I had recruited her after the eighth solo attempt had resulted in blood on the bedspread from a nasty cut on my ear – I should have thought to turn the ceiling fan off before trying to put on The Trousers. She was already out of breath after her planned method of standing me on my head then dragging the offending garment down my legs towards my torso had literally back-fired (don't ask).

Eventually we won. It was a real family effort which included Mrs Ed, our son The REE (Resident Expert on Everything), various parts of the family home fittings such as the stairs, bedroom door and the toilet brush, and a well timed bite from the family dog which I believe finally sealed the deal, because that is what caused Mrs Ed to lose her footing on the chest of drawers and land on top of me.

Suddenly The Trousers were on.

We had to get The REE to drive us to the function, so that I could lie spread-eagled on the back seat and Mrs Ed could maintain pressure on my midriff – just until everything equalised of course. By the time we had got there all seemed to have settled into place, my blood had started reaching the tips of my fingers again (obviously I can't speak for my toes) and my face had lost some of its beetroot colouring…. Though that could have been down to the nosebleed.

Just as long as I didn't eat or drink anything, and made no sudden moves, everything would be just fine. It always is, once The Trousers are on.

But it wasn't a 'no sudden moves' and 'don't eat or drink anything' sort of evening…. And I wonder how many of the revellers realised that a potential weapon of mass destruction was sitting amongst them.

Fortunately it was quite late in the evening when The Button finally went. And the fact that I was on the dance floor treating everyone with the visual blessing of my highly acclaimed John Travolta 'Night Fever' moves (people do tend to stand back when I am doing this, possibly in awe) meant that there were no other casualties other than the unfortunate soul who got hit in the cheek by the flying high-velocity plastic disc (“I've been shot! I've been shot!” the silly woman kept screaming).

Having been waiting in trepidation for this moment, Mrs Ed stepped in and fireman-lifted me off the dance floor (to tumultuous applause – probably for afore-mentioned moves). The sudden equalisation of blood flow must have caused intense dizziness in my brain because the next thing I remember I was back at home, sitting on the couch, totally (and blissfully) trouserless.

“So, can I put these in the bin now, for once and for all?” asked Mrs Ed, holding aloft the offending trews.
“Don't be silly,” I answered, not quite believing the wastefulness of the woman, “I've only worn them … what… about six times….? Let's keep them for the next special occasion.”
“So… you want me to put them back in the cupboard….. Really?”
“Of course! They have plenty of wear in them yet. And we have two kids, both of whom are surely going to have a wedding anytime in the next ten years or so…"