The "You’re Not Really A Size 10 Anymore" Pile

Because I am nothing if not clear-eyed and level-headed, and after looking at my jeans collection, I realised I might have to make a few wardrobe adjustments.
Like throwing away the jeans that have ripped so far around that on one side, they’re practically hot pants. Need I point out that hot pants are not hot? In either sense of the word, actually, which is useful to bear in mind, as it is only March, which means “Winter” in the UK.

Actually, most months mean “Winter” in the UK, with the notable exceptions of January (which is uniformly grey, rather than cold, to trick you into thinking that the start of the new calendar year means that it’s Spring), May (which tends to have the hottest weather you’ll get that year, to really annoy students since they have to work through it rather than having time off like they usually do) and August (which feels like Spring again, just to confuse people).

But that’s not the point.

The point is that one of the largest piles of old clothes is the “You’re Not Really A Size 10 Anymore” pile.
This pile annoys me for the simple reason that when I was a size 10, I hardly wore these things because they were nice and I was never going anywhere special.

I have officially learned my lesson and after I have disposed of these clothes with my friends that are size 1os, I shall remember to always wear my nice clothes in preference to my ordinary ones. That way, if I change size again, at least I can console myself with the thought that I actually got some wear out of the interesting clothes, and the other ones were a bit boring anyway.

On the other hand, one of the other piles is the “I Know You Loved Those Clothes But They’ve Got More Holes Than A Cheese Grater”. So, swings and roundabouts, I suppose.

Oh, and on a different note, the porter came to me today, and, looking very nervous and not very happy, told me that he’d been thinking things over and what with him doubting my honesty and the fact I’d told him in no uncertain terms that he would never get my number, he’d decided he wanted to “keep to himself”.
I have to say, I’m slightly confused by this as I have been doing my best to treat our two “little chats” as unpleasant interludes – as in, I haven’t referred to them after the event and I’ve been careful to always be civil, so I say good morning and so on regardless of what has been said before.
Perhaps he thinks I’m taking the piss.
Perhaps I should.
All the same, I do believe in good manners, so I think I shall continue to say good morning, and if he has a problem with that, he can come and tell me. Although I’m not sure it would help our working relationship. And also I might end up kicking the little idiot in the balls with my new steel-toed boots out of sheer irritation.

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