Shirtless. But not in Seattle.

One of the things I like to sleep in is a flannel shirt, man sized and well worn. (That was sleep in, not with!) The last one I had - given to me so long ago I have no idea where it came from. The Snooks, maybe? - is, well, dead. I decided it was beyond worn when I put it in the wash, and it came out in five pieces: the collar, two sleeves, the main body and one strip from where the button holes are. So it has served me well. But now it is really truly gone. Tis no more. Not even as a rag. Burial at three, wake at four.

Now before you get all commenty and stuff, they really do make great nightshirts. When they’re old, there is nothing softer than flannel that’s been washed a bazillion times. And if you get a man size shirt they’re long enough to allow you to go out and get mail or start the car without alarming any stray neighbours. (See? I’m starting to think about neighbourhood etiquette). At least they’re long enough on me. The Sisters of Loveliness would be half naked. Curse them and their model-long legs.

The problem is that I need a replacement shirt. And it isn’t something that one asks friends for. Although now that I think about it, the sisters of L. loaned A. one when he was in Oklahoma!, so maybe they have spares hanging around. Or I could mug someone. Or – and really, this is the solution – I could BUY one, the way regular people do, and just let it get soft in its own time. Then I’d be just like all those regular shirt buying people.

This post is a clear reflection on the boredom of the day. So no, you don’t need to intervene; I haven’t gone round the twist. Yet.