Damn them all.
Yesterday, while in town, I got to wondering about how much better my life would be if only I owned a part of mid-brown smart-casual trousers. I know. It's a strange thing to ponder, or at least it would be if I didn't work in an office where jeans are not permitted and where my current trousers - a pair of black cotton smart-casual-thingies (I don't know how to describe them except to say that they stop my legs from being nakes) - are feeling a bit over-used and unseasonal. I want to dress in lighter colours in order to feel more summery.
I was passing M&S when this thought crossed my mind, so I went in. At the top of the escalator was a dummy wearing exactly the sort of trousers I had my eye on. They turned out to be jeans, and I'm not sure whether my employer's dress code would have accepted them, despite the fact that they weren't denim. Still, on my right was a rack with mid-brown chinos on it. Brilliant. Not only that, but the pair at the front was in my size, well it was in the largest possible size that they do, which also happens to be the size I wish I were, so that was good enough for me. I took it as a sign.
Sweating my way into the pair of trousers in the fitting room felt less like a gift from the clothing gods than perhaps I'd hoped. Don't get me wrong, they went on. But "well, they go on" is not a recommendation for a suitable pair of trousers. I imagine that no bespoke tailor in the land would keep business if he used that line often. As is often the case in these situations, I tried to be optimistic. I looked myself up and down, I posed, I looked on the bright side. Then I remembered my girlfriend. If I were to take these trousers back from town, then she'd probably want to see me in them. She'd give advice on how I looked. I tried to look at myself through her eyes.
I decided that she didn't like the trousers, so I didn't buy them. It was the right decision.