The Shirt With The Hole

'What can we get you for your birthday, then, dad?' enquired eldest son, as we enjoyed an early, celebratory meal in a nearby pub' restaurant.

'Just a card,' replied my husband. 'I know that you haven't got much spare cash, at the moment and I don't want you to waste your money on me.'

'We will get you something, though,' said eldest son's girlfriend, 'so you might as well tell us what you'd like.'

I took advantage of the short pause in the conversation and said to my eldest son, with a wicked smile, 'Your father needs a polo shirt, without a hole in it.' My husband tutted and looked visibly annoyed for a few seconds. I wasn't surprised at my sons' subsequent reactions, as the men in my family have a habit of sticking together.

'Oh, don't tell me! Has dad been going out looking less than perfect?' said my eldest son with mock exaggeration.

'Oh, no!' joined in youngest son. 'Has dad been going out with holes in his clothes? Shock, horror!'

They laughed and I laughed, but I continued with mock haughtiness, as soon as they had quietened down, 'I never go out with holes in my clothes. I have standards. I expect the same from your father!' We all laughed once more and the conversation moved on.

I don't mind them teasing me, but there is no basis for it, because I've never been in the habit of telling my husband what to wear. In the 32 years since our marriage, in spite of having to bite my lip, on several occasions, I've only criticised the clothes that my husband has decided to wear on 2 recent occasions.

My husband has never taken much interest in clothes, but he has always found short sleeved polo shirts particularly comfortable to wear and has been an avid collector since about 1976. They are his most favoured garment. He buys new ones, but he never throws an old one away. He will wear the same polo shirt to go out, as he wore a couple of weeks before, to cut the hedge and dig the garden. Joseph's amazing old technicolour dreamcoat could have been inspired by the myriad of colours in his collection and, if I laid them end to end, they would probably go twice around the earth's circumference. 2 of them have been the proud recipients of a telegram from the Queen.

It doesn't matter if they are faded, shrunken and stiff from age, or misshapen, they remain as beautiful to him, as the day he first set eyes on them. I sometimes wonder whether it is the same soft focus vision, which has stopped him swapping me for a younger model. I may give my own optician the boot and start visiting his.

A few months ago, my husband and I were going out for the day and I noticed that the polo shirt he was wearing had a small hole in it. When I pointed it out, he looked irritated, but went off to change it. The next time he did the same thing, I didn't say anything, as we were only going to the shops, but, after that occasion, I stopped ironing his very old polo shirts, in the hope that it would persuade him to keep them for working around the house.

The next time I noticed him donning one of his old, creased polo shirts, I pointed out that I was no longer ironing those particular shirts, because they were too scruffy and I suggested that he should buy a couple of new ones to keep solely for going out. After the conversation in the pub' a couple of nights ago, I'm relieved to say that he has finally taken the hint and we are going polo shirt shopping at the weekend! Yay! We know how to live!

I don't care how much I am teased about my attitude, I won't be changing my opinion. I don't have many clothes, these days and I am often to be found in jeans, but my clothes are always ironed, clean and respectable. I wear old clothes around the house and for gardening etc, but I keep some decent clothes for going out. I never look scruffy, when I go out with my husband and I expect the same standards from him.

What about you? What's your opinion? Do you think that I've made too much fuss about a hole in a shirt? Would you object if your husband wanted to go out with holes in his clothes, where it wasn't fashionable to have them? Do you try to look smart, when going out, or do you not think it's so important, nowadays?

Pardon?

Oddly enough, by Christmas time I had made a miraculous recovery from my devastating mystery illness. No-one was more surprised than me.

So, I have a little catching up to do after my long absence. Cast your mind back to New Year's Eve, if you will. The way in which I spent the day may cause you a little amusement.

My husband's family came to spend some time with us, over New Year - his family consisting of his mother, his younger sister and her husband, plus their son, aged 8. On New Year's Eve most of the members of our combined families fancied a walk, which my husband and I had done in the summer and enjoyed very much. My middle son was working, so could not join in, but my youngest son went along and so did my husband. At the last minute, my eldest son and his girlfriend decided to go too, taking their newly acquired rescue dog.

I opted to keep my mother-in-law company, as always, as she suffers from arthritis and has limited mobility. My husband suggested that she and I should drive out and meet up with them at the pub', about halfway round the walk, the idea being that we would all have a drink, they would continue with the walk and we would drive back to prepare a late buffet lunch.

I duly drove out to the pub' at about 1pm, we both splashed out on a mineral water (I was driving, she was on medication!) and settled down to await the arrival of the walkers. Eventually, my husband and brother-in-law appeared, explaining that they couldn't come in, because dogs were banned from the premises. My mother-in-law could not go to sit outside, because she was afraid that the cold air would cause the return of her neuralgia and I didn't want to leave her on her own, so we continued to sit inside, whilst everyone else sat outside!

My mother-in-law, who is 80 years old and hard of hearing, asked where the walkers were going next. I explained that they had to walk along the road to the church, which I pointed out from the pub' window, across a few fields, through another village, then across some more fields, before being able to return to their cars.

I explained again a few minutes later, when she asked me the same question.

My sister-in-law came in and spent a few minutes with us and so did my youngest son. My husband came in to say that they were all about to leave. He said that they expected to be back home by 4pm. He held up 4 fingers to try to reinforce the meaning for his mother. After they had left, she asked my why my husband had held up 4 fingers. 'He means that they will be back home by about 4pm' I said.

'Where have they got to go?' she asked. I explained once more. She stood up and began to fasten up her coat. I wasn't quite ready to leave. I didn't intend to finish my mineral water, but I fancied a few more sips. I took another swallow, but my mother-in-law was obviously intent on returning to the house and stood waiting expectantly. I explained that I had to visit the ladies' and when I came out, she was already in the car park, heading for the car.

I drove home, not totally relishing the thought of wrestling with the mountain of food we needed to prepare for our late buffet lunch. As I drew up outside the house, about 20 minutes later, my mother-in-law said, with some amazement, 'Oh, they're not back yet, then?'

My Best Side

My husband and I have lost a few things just lately. Things like our eyesight, our hearing, the odd tooth, our sense of humour, the will to live - you know the sort of thing. This week we both lost our advanced digital hearing aids, and I lost my reading glasses, which resulted in the following conversation.

'DARLING, WOULD YOU PUT ONE OF MY GLAMOROUS PHOTOS ONTO MY BLOG, PLEASE? I CAN'T LOAD ANY INTO MY PROFILE, FOR SOME REASON. WILL YOU MAKE SURE IT IS ONE OF MY BEST SIDE?'

'YES, DEAR, OF COURSE!'

Half an hour later, I enquired 'DARLING, DID YOU FIND A PHOTO' TO PUT ON MY BLOG?'

'YES, DEAR.'

'IS IT ONE OF MY BEST SIDE?'

'IT IS.' replied my husband with an enigmatic little smile. 'IT'S THE ONE WITH THE ALLIUM.' He left the room whistling.

He is such a dear. I know that he gets a bit exasperated with my menopausal mood swings, just lately, but he never bears a grudge. He knows nothing about flowers, though. I don't remember posing with an allium - he probably means the one where I've got the rose between my teeth.

Serves 2

My husband always works hard, but during October and November, he tends to be particularly busy attending exhibitions, occasionally on Saturdays, and anywhere in the country. On such days, he may need to set off at 6am or 7am. He can be late home, or he may have to stay overnight. On a normal day, when he is going to the office, he leaves the house at 8am and returns at 7.30pm. It generally takes him an hour to get to work, but it's not unusual for the journey to take longer if there has been a road accident, for example. One morning last week there were 2 road accidents and his journey lasted for 5 hours.

Last Thursday afternoon, my weekly email to my student son was interrupted, when I received a telephone call from a friend I hadn't seen for a while. It was quite late by the time I had caught up with my friend's news and finished my email, but I realised that I would still have to go to the supermarket, as we had nothing for our evening meal. I wasn't feeling well and I suspected that I had man 'flu. It had obviously crossed the species barrier, and now that I had caught it, I finally understood that it was no laughing matter. The colour of my nose could only be compared to that of Rudolph's, and, at my age, I had certainly never expected to be this close to death's door. I decided that it was safer not to drive in my current fragile state. It was a 10 minute walk to the shops. I could drag myself there, and get an ambulance back if necessary.

On arriving at the supermarket, I headed for the fresh fish counter, but suddenly remembered that my husband was meeting some friends for a meal. It occurred to me that I could buy a ready meal for my son and myself. It would be quick and easy to do in my current ailing condition. I glanced around furtively. I couldn't afford to be seen by any of my friends in the process of buying convenience food. The majority of them were already immersed in Christmas food preparation. Some were clearing the supermarket shelves of dried cranberries, after pouring over stuffing recipes in the Good Food Magazine and others were buying nibbed almonds and cognac in anticipation of making Christmas puddings.

I examined the 'as good as eating out' range of ready meals on the chilled food shelf, choosing a poached salmon and pasta dish. My husband disliked salmon, so it was an ideal opportunity for my son and myself to enjoy it in his absence. I picked up a small tin of vegetables and put it in my basket, covering both items with 5 healthy portions of fresh fruit and vegetables, in case I bumped into anyone I knew. After 27 years of living in the South, I was beginning to understand how to fit in here. Never give anyone the opportunity to feel superior. They will always take advantage of it. I made a dash for a checkout manned by no-one I knew and within a few minutes I was heading outside, to be swallowed up by the darkness.

My son and I decided to dispense with formality and we ate our meal, sitting on the sofa, whilst watching our favourite tv programme - That 70s Show. (Hooray for Sky TV!) Naturally, we only watch it when there is nothing good on the History Channel or the National Geographic.

We both agreed that our ready meal was delicious. I perused the cardboard sleeve after we had eaten, wondering which zingy additives had made the food so tasty. I couldn't find any listed, but the red circles on the front of the sleeve, denoted that the meal was high in saturated fat. That explained a few things then.

As we sat on the sofa, chatting, I heard the front door open and realised that my husband had, seemingly, arrived home early. I clapped one hand to my mouth and stared at my son, with mounting horror, mingled with the vaguest tinge of amusement. 'I've got the wrong night!' I said. 'Dad's going out tomorrow night, not tonight!'

Fortunately, my husband saw the funny side of it, or at least he said that he did.