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Subtext: I really, really don’t want to!

Informed Oppressed Husband of the need to dust off his Dinner Jacket with the offer to get it dry cleaned in time for social occasion in two days time. He looked shifty, then brazenly smug, as he announced that he had thrown it away because it was ‘a bit small’ and he ‘didn’t like wearing it anyway!’ He was quickly dispatched to find a replacement because ‘No – a suit would not do’.  OH grumpily stomped off in the direction of the shops but was back, wreathed smiles, suspiciously swiftly, sporting a small carrier bag under one arm. Apparently he had been struck by a notion of such brilliance that he couldn’t believe we hadn’t thought of it before. Not wanting to waste the ready on an article of clothing that he hated anyway and wore as little as possible it occurred to him that the local charity shop was just the place to find a replacement. And so it is if your ideal look is the wide lapels and flares of the 70’s deeply imbued with the exotic fragrance of moth balls. On the grounds that these things never fit anyway he had applied a broad-church approach to the concept of fit and was now the proud owner of a dinner jacket that I can only suppose previously belonged to Patrick Moore. The jacket is voluminous (or ‘comfortable’ apparently) and the trousers have the added attraction of being so high-waisted as to keep the entire stomach region nice and cosy. This is all an utterly see through and obvious attempt to ensure that he is never again required to attend what OH calls a ‘fancy dress occasion’ – let alone be forced to dance. I am ignoring the provocation.

Had a jolly time at the dance and any event that culminates in loading a happily sozzled Opera singer into back of the landrover can only be regarded as a success.