A man calls to the house, my da answers...
"Excuse me sir, what do you do with your old clothes?"
The aul' fella: "I wear them."
The man goes on his way.
I can relate. There is no fresher hell than shopping for clothes, at least not that I can think of.
With my black t-shirts now frayed and charcoal, my jeans gone at the crotch due to my gargantuan appendage, my shirts shedding buttons like Bosco on a drinking frenzy I took myself to town to get it all over and done with.
What a rotten experience.
I went to five shops, with the selling staff getting more and more trendy as I got more and more broken down by life. A sweaty curmudgeon buying young people's clothes, that was me, doing everything I could to avoid seeing myself in profile through the dressing room mirrors. I hate my profile.
TK Maxx was the killer. I went in hoping for some cheap knock-offs and left cursing and blinding and tripping over the buggies of children eating ice-cream, their mothers chattering away to each other and caring not one jot for the tightness of the aisles. Fuck that. Fuck TK Maxx and its row upon row of polyester pulchritude.
Weighed down like some photo negative Pretty Woman I panted my way down Grafton Street and into the nearest taxi I could find, hoping against hope that some poor damsel will marry me before I have to go through this again.
I am my da.