Donald, where's your trousers...

The husband is the King of Ill Preparation, the Prince of Procrastination, the Count of Can't be A**ed...

Knowing this only too well, I had asked him on Wednesday whether his dinner suit, shirt, dickie bow etc were all ok as we had a big function on the cards for Saturday night. 'Yes, yes', he'd muttered, 'it's all there'.

I now know that a) he wasn't listening and b) he hadn't been anywhere near his wardrobe. 

On Saturday afternoon around 4.00, I reminded him that the taxi would be collecting us at 4.45.  As he was mid car wash, I said that I would go and quickly get ready and by the time he'd finished my car, the bathroom would be all his. Now, I have been here before, so I poked my head into his wardrobe to get the suit and shirt out.  Horrors, there was a jacket and a dickie bow, but no trousers. 

Having done a military sweep of the children's wardrobes to see whether they had borrowed them.  If you know the height difference between the boys and the husband, you'd know that this would be laughable (think Norman Wisdom) but I had to check).  Drawing blanks at every turn, I stuck my head out of the bedroom window.  'Where are your trousers?' I asked. By now it was 4.10.  I was still in gardening garb and a whiff of panic was descending.

Coming upstairs at the speed of an stick insect with lumbago, he was still insisting that they were in the wardrobe, but having turfed everything out, he finally agreed that he had no trousers.  Time was ticking on, and the taxi would be with us in twenty three minutes, so thrusting him in the shower, I shot downstairs and phoned a menswear shop which was in the town where we were headed. Having established that yes, they had a pair of dress trousers which would fit him, I headed back upstairs to get changed and made up.  This took the whole of six minutes, while the husband ranted about his missing trousers.  He then moved to even more ranting when his cufflinks weren't 'where he left them'.  'Where he left them' is normally at the end of the shirt cuffs in the dirty washing box, but he still believes after all these years that he returns them to the box every time after wearing them.  Cufflinks were finally located in a different box (note to self, don't do this again as he is easily confused) and he continued getting ready.

And then his dickie fell off....

Now, we all know that I am referring to the rather sorry bow tie which he'd put on, but ladies, I'll be honest with you, at that moment, if it had been a different dickie, there would have been a certain amount of schadenfreude involved.

So he's standing there.  In a dinner jacket which has seen better years (we later ascertained it wasn't even his), blue trousers and a broken dickie.

'Not to worry', he said, 'I'll get everything I need at the clothes shop'.  

And then the taxi driver texted me to inform me that he will be thirteen minutes late.

Now, assuming that he was no later than that, and that he drove like the clappers, this would allow the husband exactly four minutes to completely kit himself out before they closed.

We just made it.  While he was being fleeced to the tune of an average mortgage payment, I necked back two rather large glasses of Prosecco to stop my head exploding while I muttered various expletives under my breath.  When he got back to the restaurant where we were meeting Miss R, he looked fantastic, and I was very proud to have him by my side.

I, on the other hand, looked like I'd brushed my hair with a firework as I hadn't had time to do the intricate updo which was planned.  I also had the wrong bra on, and flashed black straps and goodness knows what else all night.

Walking back to the taxi at the end of the night, the husband gave me a hug.  'Have you forgiven me yet?'

Looking at my face, I think he realized that a response wasn't required...



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