This is Mum.
Mum has reached the point where she can put off the horrid task no longer.
Mum has to buy a new pair of jeans.
This is Dad.
Dad is mystified.
Dad does not understand why buying a new pair of jeans is such a herculean effort.
This is because Dad is a man.
When Dad needs to buy a new pair of jeans, Dad simply goes online, selects his waist size and inside leg measurement, and a new pair of jeans in precisely the size Dad was expecting arrives on the doorstep a few days later.
“Can you not get some jeans on the internet?” asks Dad.
Mum reminds Dad of the last time she attempted to order jeans on the internet.
Mum spent £479 on fifteen different pairs of jeans in various cuts, shapes and sizes, in the hope that one – just one – might be suitable.
Not a single one of those bastard pairs of jeans fitted Mum.
Mum goes to the shops.
Mum starts her shopping trip optimistically. It will not take Mum long to find a new pair of jeans. Mum can simply buy an exact replacement for the pair of jeans she is currently wearing, which, after a 3 month search, she finally successfully purchased 6 months ago, and has rarely taken off since, to the point that all of the seams have frayed, several holes have appeared, and Mum is now at risk of flashing her labia majora to the general public, because while these jeans might actually fit, perish the thought that clothing manufacturers should use a quality of denim in women’s clothing which is sturdy enough to stand up to actually being worn.
Mum goes into the shop which sells the jeans she is currently wearing.
This style of jeans has been discontinued.
Mum then rallies herself. After all, how hard can it be to find a second pair of jeans which also fit, don’t gape at the waist, don’t reveal your arse crack when you sit down, don’t make your legs look like overstuffed sausage skins, and don’t make you like like a wannabe member of B*witched?
In the first clothes shop she goes into, Mum picks up pairs of jeans in sizes from 10 to 16.
None of these pairs of jeans fit past Mum’s knees.
In the second clothes shop she goes into, Mum picks up pairs of jeans in sizes from 14 to 20.
All of these pairs of jeans fall down to Mum’s ankles.
Mum tries on boyfriend jeans, girlfriend jeans, “mom” jeans, skinny jeans, super skinny jeans, bootcut jeans, flared jeans and even risks a pair of jeggings.
NONE OF THESE BASTARD JEANS FIT.
On Mum’s fourteenth shop, and fifty seventh pair of jeans, Mum finds a pair of jeans that fit!
Mum turns around to look at herself in the mirror.
The jeans spell out “FUCKBUDDY” in tiny red and purple sequins across Mum’s buttocks.
Mum puts her old jeans back on.
Mum goes and buys a needle and thread.
Mum cannot sew, but Mum has come to the rapid realisation that she has a better chance of mending her existing jeans than she does of finding a new pair which actually fit.
Mum arrives back home.
Dad, who has been staring catatonically at electronic devices with Biff and Chip and Kipper since Mum left home, suggests that he has had a terribly hard morning, and isn’t Mum lucky to have had such a relaxing trip out shopping all by herself.
Mum explains in words of one syllable to Dad what she will be doing with her needle and thread if he ever, ever refers to jeans shopping as a relaxing occupation, ever again.