Simply Sue: The Whole Story Of Revealing Clothes
Sue Papworth says he has at last realised the function of summer clothes. They exist to be shoved in a suitcase under the spare room bed.
I have at last realised the function of summer clothes.
They exist in order to be shoved in a suitcase under the spare room bed, until the middle of a heat wave, when you vaguely remember them, and look for them everywhere except under the spare room bed.
This is an interesting way of turning out all your cupboards, and possibly the garage as well, depending on how desperate you get.
By about half-way through the heat wave you remember where they are and dig them out, gaze at them in horror, argue about where on earth you got them, and sling half of them out.
There used to be things called holiday frocks: they hung limply on racks outside shops at unlikely times of year so labelled - shapeless things in the sort of violent floral patterns even your least co-ordinated aunt kept for the back bedroom. There will probably be one of those, although no-one can remember whose it was, or for how many generations it’s hung about. Or if they can, no-one will admit to it.
They then get washed, ironed, argued over again, put in and out of the Oxfam box fourteen times, and dangled limply in the wardrobe whilst you shove fourteen pairs of corduroy trousers into the suitcase under the spare room bed.
You may possibly get something out every now and again, but actually, you will spend the entire summer in one outfit. If the heat wave persists, like this last year, it will be a cotton lawn tent you’ve had since about 1973 because it’s the coolest thing you possess. (Then again, maybe not if you’re a chap: you will probably wear a terrible shirt that was a mistake even at the time it was bought, and resembles a bilious mint humbug.)
If the heat wave collapses into the traditional summer chill, you will continue wearing whatever it is you wear all the rest of the year, which will probably be one pair of corduroy trousers that didn’t get parked. Possibly minus the wellingtons.
By about mid-October, the things get taken out of the wardrobe, washed, ironed, argued over, weeded out, put in and out of the Oxfam box several times, and dumped on the spare room bed.
Several weeks later - or just before Christmas, when Aunt Thing is due - the corduroy trousers that you were actually looking for all the time you were away on holiday in Criccieth get turfed out of the suitcase, and the whole of your summer wardrobe gets shoved back into the spot where it hibernates until next year.
When the whole performance starts again.
