The Trouser Incidents
No. 1: A man gets an unexpected boost to his reputation
Not long after I met the man who would become my husband, I found myself able to do him a favour. No, don’t snigger - it was intended to be helpful and not in the least saucy.
At the time, he was a sergeant in the Metropolitan Police Service. They were issued with two types of long trouser: one for summer, one for winter. The winter variety were made of a thick, scratchy wool material.
We met in April and by June, the British summer had miraculously arrived. He mentioned how he wished he could swap the uncomfortable wool trousers for the summer weight pair but they were too long. I jumped at the chance to help, knowing I could easily perform the task of shortening them. I pinned up the hems and took them back to my flat to finish the job.
The next day was scorching. The trousers were hanging from a hook in the back of my car. A journey from one work location to another took me past his police station. He would be on duty, hot and itchy. I spun into the car park, entered the building and marched up to the front desk.
‘Can I help you?’ said a young pup.
‘Is Sergeant Clarke available?’ I enquired, ‘only I’ve got his trousers in my car.’
Moral of the story: use all the words necessary to explain yourself, particularly where police officers are concerned. Apparently, news of my naïve declaration ripped through the assembled workforce causing much hilarity and sly nods of approval for a man not known for having a racy private life. I think he quite enjoyed it!
No 2: A man confused.
We had left it late to purchase a new evening suit for my husband. An important black-tie event was only two days away, so the fit had to be perfect. We found a suitable candidate, with one problem. This time, the trousers were a little short. I checked the turn up, concluding there was sufficient fabric to make a false hem. I even suspected I had some black tape in my sewing box.
When I checked, the tape was indeed there and I had enough to complete the task so I set to work with a day to spare. The job wasn’t hard and I proudly hung the finished product, ironed and ready, on the back of the bedroom door.
That night, I suggested my husband try them on for a final check. He was upstairs for a long time, returning with a puzzled expression on his face. He said he didn’t understand why, but he couldn’t get his feet through the bottom of the legs. A small quiver of fear set my stomach trembling.
On investigation the ghastly truth dawned. The black tape was self-sticking hemming tape, designed to go inside a fold of material, not on the outside as part of a false hem. The heat of the iron had fused together the folded halves of each leg, effectively sealing them. It wasn’t only humiliating, I instantly knew how hard it would be to fix. Self-sticking tape is named for a reason. That sucker was not going to open up without a fight. I put on my bravest face and told him I would deal with it the next day. And, thankfully, because I’d set to work quickly, I did at least have a day to make amends. The thought of this disaster occurring ON THE NIGHT set my heart racing.
I took up a seam ripper – not an appropriate tool but what else was available when no other idiot would do what I’d done? - and swallowed hard. That tape could have given super glue a run for its money. With the utmost care and only a couple of holes – a miracle, seriously - I managed to prize the fabric apart and replace the evil binding with a non-adhesive variety. I didn’t point out the holes and my husband didn’t notice. Neither would anyone else who doesn’t know the story.
Whoops.