I wouldn’t say the big clothes sort-out
qualifies as an annual ritual. God knows my
wife would like to make it that frequent; she
suggests it often enough. If Nicola had her
way, indeed, the hideous humiliating big
clothes sort-out would take place biannually.
Quarterly. Monthly. Fortnightly, even. Yup,
that’s how much Nicola enjoys watching me
try and fail to fit into my wardrobe. And yet,
through employing the full bag of tricks (lies,
excuses, sulking, mute intransigence, fatigue,
simply running out of the house), I am able to
limit the horror show to perhaps once every
18 months or so.
Eventually, however, kicking and
screaming, moaning and mithering, whining
and whimpering, the big clothes sort-out
inevitably takes place. All delays exhausted,
Nicola drags me upstairs to our bedroom (but
not in a good way) and insists that we just
damn well get on with it. It being a winnowing
out of my clothing. That’s what came to pass
last weekend.
It never gets any better.
Storage space isn’t especially limited in
our house. This being the case, it’s an ongoing
mystery why my clothes have to find a home
in an alcove off a narrow stairway which leads
to the roof. There’s a bit of hanging space, but
as the roof above is prone to leaks in heavy
rain, only two thirds of the rail can reliably be
used, for the avoidance of water damage. Most
of my gear is kept in see-through plastic boxes
with snap catch lids on shelves. Although, to
be fair, a year ago Nicola donated me the use
of two drawers in the actual bedroom for my
socks, pants and T-shirts.
I lug the boxes down from their eyrie.
Nicola gets some of the same boxes, empty
ones, and prepares her categories. These
are: bin; charity; scruffy; summer (or winter,
depending on the season) storage; currently
in use; may possibly move into use if Robert
ever gets around to losing any weight.
The creation of the last category occasions
her initial lecture about a diet. “Are you going
to try? Seriously? You won’t lose weight by
walking a lot or going to Sapan, you know.
You’ve got to eat less. A lot less. For a
sustained period. No snacking or late-night
raids on the fridge. No having a second dinner
two hours after the first dinner. Or shall we
just chuck all these trousers away?”
And so on. A version of this speech
punctuates the ensuing hour at roughly
ten-minute intervals. Nicola has banned mefrom using the word “nagging” on account of
it never being used about men and therefore
sexist, but, y’know, her definitely not nagging
me about my weight can get a bit wearisome.
Especially when I triumphantly squeeze
into 36in-waist jeans, not without a great deal
of huffing and puffing, none of it for comic
effect, and I announce, “Phew! Never in
doubt!” and she says, “They’re M&S. They
resized everything a few years ago so people
didn’t feel so fat. Like fashion labels saying
something’s a size 4 when really it’s an 8. Try
the Levi’s if you don’t believe me.”
We have our usual arguments about chinos,
which I dislike. And then our usual arguments
about linen, which I also dislike. There will
ensue minor disagreements about clothes
hangers, jumpers I still like that have gone
bobbly, me trying on shorts without pants to
speed up the process and, this time around, the
fact I kept standing on a particularly squeaky
floorboard. The usual marital tit-for-tat.
The big issue, as always, is the one category
Nicola does not create, the category she in fact
tries relentlessly to abolish: namely, clothes of
absolutely no practical utility but enormous
sentimental value. These are mostly music and
political T-shirts from 40 or more years ago,
T-shirts which I could only wear again if I lost
a third of my current body weight.
There are U2 tour T-shirts from Boy in 1980
and October in 1981. There’s a People’s March
for Jobs number, also from 1981. It brings back
happy memories of my Uncle Rod, a senior
executive with Unilever at Port Sunlight at
the time, on the demo in Liverpool hoping he
wouldn’t be spotted by his boss. And there’s
a Mines Not Missiles number from 1984.
“Do you really want to hang on to
these?” asks Nicola.
“Sure do,” I say. “That’s social history
right there. Not to mention personal cred.
Everyone’s heard of Jobs Not Bombs,
but Mines Not Missiles? That’s specialist,
that is. Hardcore. Besides, they might be
worth something.”
By way of a finale, I agree to put on
my Lycra cycling leotard, a mankini in all
but name, to give my wife and daughter a
laugh. Which I duly receive. Catching my
reflection in the mirror, a truly horrifying
sight, I understand why their giggles are
laced with something that sounds an awful
lot like pity. nrobert.crampton @thetimes.co.uk‘As a finale to the
big clothes sort-out
I try on my cycling
leotard – a mankini
in all but name’
Beta male
Robert Crampton
© Times Newspapers Ltd, 2021. Published and licensed by Times Newspapers Ltd, 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF (020 7782 5000). Printed by Prinovis UK Ltd, Liverpool. Not to be sold separately.TOM JACKSON