Those of you expecting a special post for St Valentine’s Day are, I am afraid, going to be sorely disappointed. I’ve simply not got any good stories about that day, having always found myself either without a person to celebrate it with, or in the company of someone too sensible to fall for the whole made-up, money-grabbing farrago.
Instead, here’s a post about my underwear.
Or rather, not my underwear. Growing up in our house, there were two rules about underwear. One was that it wasn’t to be worn in bed (which completely threw me in adult life) and the other was that, except in exceptional circumstances, vests were to be worn at all times.
Which was odd, because neither of my parents wore them. But my grandfathers did, and so, for some reason, we all had to, too. At least as children.
I can remember the joy at finally disposing of my last one. I spent many years accepting that I was wearing this strange thing below my shirt and an equal number of years wondering why I was doing it. Finally growing out of the last one was a combination of a rite of passage and a blessed relief.
Nowadays, of course, vests seem to exist either as outerwear for the sartorially challenged, or as essential undergarments for the elderly.Whether anyone makes their children wear them nowadays I do not know, but it has never even occurred to me to put my son into one.
So, what did your parents make you wear that you hated?