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Sunday, 26 January 2020

Broke Pants

I was brought up in my older second cousin's colourful seventies cast off silver streaked cuffs; working class, and then married a "schemie" from Scotland. 

Both of us, after feeding the ba' and the lecky meter working in various jobs from crap jobs through to less crap jobs, (me beating her record of zero sackings by three) went back to the education and then became, I suppose, professional class (her by way of brains, me by way of just hanging in there until employment law meant they couldn't easily get rid of me

{Cruising to middle classyness

I don't know how else to put that, because I don't see myself as middle class for a number of reasons, including the occasional present day silver streaked cuff. And because we did this professional thing later in life, we have much more debt and mortgage than most people our age who may had taken the same "journey" earlier, who have had millions of holidays and have now retired early with pensions that ensure forty years of cruises, fondue parties, cocktails on the decking, and voting for that nice wee girl they kicked out god love her, Jo fecking Swinson

But, now at 53, I'm beginning to be able to afford stuff like new glasses, the dentist, new shoes, an annual toothbrush, soft toilet paper and crockery that hasn't been superglued for the fifth time now and again. Though I still resole shoes (one pair are on their sixth sole, the Timpson man now knowing them by the pet names, "I can't get the smell from my fingers for weeks") and wear clothes until they actually fall apart -eg, I reluctantly had to get rid of a pair of pants today that are older than my 23 year old son after I found they were literally being held together by a couple of threads and the prayers of a sect secreted by the Slaney rivulet for over 1500 years; instructed by chieftain, Dichu, (who gave St Patrick his barn as a place of worship, in the village now known as Saul), to "Do the Great Mother's work, while I humour this Roman biddie..." It turns out they are an important Scots/Gaellic/Gealic/Irish relic, and I should have been charging Americans to mop their brow with them to give them the great Scots/Gaellic/Gealic/Irish gift of supermarket queue flatulence, something those pants survived perhaps weekly for 25 years. 

{Working class unclaimed bodies

Those pants, like many of my clothes and possessions were tested over many years, tribulations, stretches and fashion seasons and cycles. In the end, they didn't give up on me. I gave up on them in case I was knocked down, and my family had to endure identifying the body. I want at least some tears in that situation. Not red faced, outright denial. 

Though really, this leeting of kecks really has to be a process rather than a sudden change, as the new, less broke me, can only afford to catch up on what I've been denied for years, slowly, tentatively, step by step like the process of peace that hasn't yet had Arlene Foster and Michelle O'Neill walking at Belfast Pride, hand in hand (am I expecting too much after the Ian Paisley/Martin McGuinness comedy duo Chuckle Brothers act?). These things should happen slowly, at a pace in which eventually a Free Presbyterian can embrace drag as part of their marching Kultur, after much bending of scriptures, and the re interpretation of the big Reverend Bigotted slabber's words throughout the war known as Paisley's Troubles. 

Inviting boxer shorts into the underwear drawer regardless of how slowly I'm doing it, has been like introducing Ru Paul's Drag Race to the Twelfth. 

{Down with this sort of thing...

This tightness around the wallet region of my lower abdomen sometimes means lack of personal political funding. A couple of weeks back, for example, in Glasgow, loads of folk were marching for Scottish Independence. Tens of thousands, in fact. We couldn't go, as we were having a guy round to fix a window in our room that had blown in during the storms the night before. Now, I suppose one of us could have gone, but the expense of the windae really had us thinking about the extra shoe leather we'd be out walking to the bloody station before we bought the ticket to Queens Street. Poverty really does follow you for life. 

But I had my own, bargain bucket demo around the house. 

NWS. 

{👇 me setting off marching around my house for the Scottish independence. Add me to the total marchers...} 



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