The return

It arrived back today; the shirt. It's sitting there on the wardrobe door on its hanger, silently mocking one small slave.  It sports broad vertical bands of soft buttery cream, that are bisected with stripes of an almost trellis like design of mustard golds and reds, interwoven with red flowers and verdant green and black foliage. Those cream stripes are in turn alternated with broad vertical bands of that mustard gold, again sporting assorted flowers and foliage winding along an almost geometric Greek key design.

It is a study of harmonious shades that somehow conspire to make the eyeballs cringe in their sockets, desperately clawing their way as far back from the sight as they can. Honestly one would take a picture if not for fearing for the phone... and unleashing that sight upon you all. Even the most ardent of you bus tossing readers should be spared the reality that is that shirt. Or maybe one will just keep it as a threat... rather the way some do nuclear weapons. 

Frankly one doesn't care one whit that it graced the pages of a Vogue magazine in its day and cost the earth. His mother should have said no! Yes that's right gentle readers, she might have refused to buy Him a $20 balloon as a child, but she bought him that shirt. That woman has a lot to answer for.

You know there aren't many men who can still fit into the clothes of their teens...

Mutters and one is starting to suspect that too may be a blessing, did their partners but know it K