Despatches from a mother who started late (and is running to catch up)

A spot of shopping

"What is it with you and your clothes?" I ask Va-vay.

We are sat in an Edinburgh cafe planning the final shopping onslaught before Christmas. My cup of hot chocolate must steel me for the fight with battalions of shoppers who are advancing on the city's shops like scavenging hordes. I have presents for everybody except Va-vay, who is unable to think of a single thing he might like for Christmas (saving arcane items of geekery that I do not understand well enough to purchase).

"What do you mean?" he replies. "I buy clothes, I wear them; they wear out. That's it."

This description barely does justice to the war of attrition Va-vay wages on his clothes.

"Yes, but Va-vay, the clothes disintegrate on you. Within months. Weeks even. Remember the Thomas Pink shirts?"

We both fall silent at the memory of the shirts, now reduced to dish rags and eking out their last days in a bucket under the sink.

"That wasn't my fault," says Va-vay. "Something in the fabric attracted stains." As if a laundress had put a curse on them. A Vanish-proof jinx that would defeat the housewives of Harry Potter.

"What about your socks, then?"

I've got the trump card here. Va-vay (who has size 14 feet) has issues with socks that not even his optimism can deny. They tend to sprout holes within weeks and his toes peep out to greet the world.

I've bought socks from all the obvious sock-buying places, thinking somewhere must have some that fit his feet. In vain. Our home is full of greying, unmatched socks that have wilted at the challenge of clothing Va-vay's feet. At night, his feet stick out the end of the duvet. Large and vulnerable.

I have offered to knit him socks, but Va-vay has declined, saying his skin allergy makes him sensitive to wool. Yes, it's hard to believe this is the same man who dashed across a busy B road to save the life of a caterpillar he saw stranded on the tarmac.

"Don't buy me expensive socks for Christmas," he says. "They're no better than the cheap ones."

"Va-vay, you do want something for Christmas, don't you?"

"You've got me a hat. That's enough."

"No! It's not enough. I want to buy my husband a nice present for Christmas. Why won't you co-operate in this? There's pleasure in giving as well as receiving, you know. You're making it very difficult."

"Oh, alright, alright. What about a pair of trousers?"

As well as having feet at the more err, generous end of the spectrum, Va-vay is also tall (around 6ft 6in). As you might imagine, trouser-buying has its challenges. We trail from shop to shop, meet assistants who laugh at us or cannot help, while elbowed by fellow shoppers who refuse to move aside for the buggy. I am paranoid that a stranger will touch me and cling to Va-vay. Our search for the right sort of trousers is proving fruitless.

Eventually, I spot a countryside shop purveying guns, Barbours, goggles, corded strawberry trousers, tweed caps, padded waistcoats and any other accoutrement you could imagine the sporting gent about town might need.

"Look, Va-vay, we could get you a pair of plus fours!" I tell him in excitement.

Va-vay glances in the window at the dummy done up in a pair of moleskin pantaloons that finish just below his knees. A shotgun trails by his side. Compared to his friend (in canary yellow trousers), his get-up looks almost sophisticated.

"Any pair of trousers is like plus fours on me," he says, with resignation.

We turn from the knickerbockers, and head for home.

Posted 18 December 2007 13:57

Dilemmas Domestic chaos Edinburgh Husband Likes/Dislikes Out and about

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