Art Imitates Life

I have spent the morning kicking a pair of the Drudester's trousers up and down the hallway of the house.
The Druster mistakenly believes that this is an attention-seeking gesture and an attempt to distract him and draw him from his office. In actual fact it is an eloquent statement on the attitude of society to women in the domestic sphere through the symbolic inversion of the power balance of relationships.
Obviously.
And I hate those trousers.
The Drudester and I first met nigh on 14 years ago, and I think he was wearing those trousers at the time.
It was the era of Guns N Roses, Metallica, tattoos and big hair for blokes. It was also the era for very very tight black jeans. Sexy at the time. Sad 14 years later.
The arse of those jeans hangs inches below its original resting place and the material is now so threadbare it is not so much denim as chiffon. The well-worn waistline is positioned under his armpits at the back and under his belly at the front. He now looks like my father from the front and my mother from the back.
Ughhh.
The Drudester belongs to that exclusively blokes club whose motto is "if the shoe fits, wear it until it falls off your feet rather than shop for new kit".
I am now going to the loungeroom to flagelate the couch with a couple of particularly unattractive T-shirts as a statement of man's inhumanity to man. And, more grievously, the Drudester's inhumanitiy to fashion.