Fancy dress

The Small Object of Desire and myself are going to a wedding this Spring. Not ours, I hasten to add; we've had that conversation and although (a) we both have the dressing-up togs and (b) we intend living together for a bit, it turns out that neither of us are fussed enough to go to the expense and neither of us could fit into the clobber anyway. Somebody else's.

The tension, as always in these affairs, is clothes. The bride-to-be told her bridesmaid (The Small Object) that she can have any colour dress so long as it's mid-blue. Luckily, in the end they both fell for something in royal blue with a blue gauze-y thing overlaying it to make it look shimmery mid-blue which they can both live with. So that leaves the shoes. Women and shoes. You know what I mean. Made worse by the bride's having Very Strong Views On Shoes and the Small Object having completely different Very Strong Views On Shoes. As only women can. Even intelligent women capable of being quite sensible and practical when the mood takes them. Or perhaps especially so. I suggested wellingtons. I don't know how I survived into my fifties.

And then there's the elephant in the room: my suit.

"We need to think about getting you a suit."
"We did that last month."
"No. A suit for the wedding. What sort of suit were you thinking about getting?"
"I wasn't. Can't I go in my new suit?"
"No, that's your work suit."
"How about one of the beige linen suits I've got?"
"Because they're beige and because they've all got stains along the arms where you've spilt tea and leant in it."
"They're good suits. Very comfy."
"Not with those trousers. I can tell your religion when you're wearing them."
"So not them then?"
"No. What sort of suit are you getting?"
"How about something nice in Black Watch tartan?"
"We'll talk about this later."

The awful thing is: I'm now at an age where I can see myself buying and wearing a suit in Black Watch tartan.