I heart my jeans. So much so that I think my Pappy’s, Pappy’s, Pappy’s Pappy may have been a cowboy.
We are celebrating 30 years of bum coverage together this year. M&S circa 1985. Then I found out my daughters don’t share the love.
“Embarrassing!” they said during their denim intervention, and they took me out to buy a new pair
The first shop had a power cut so I couldn’t find anything in there. Only it wasn’t a power cut my daughters told me, it’s just the way they sell clothes. In the dark?
The second shop was lit well enough for me to see I’d need buttocks like Maltesers and legs like pipe cleaners to get into their size XL. The music was thumping – so loud it made my boobs hum – and drowned out my cri de coeur when I saw the price tag……£225.
Finally, in shop number 33, the girls found me a pair of jeans that they agreed were so modern mum. And I could get them over my hips. Result! But the jeans wouldn’t go any higher And that, the girls chorused was a good thing. I was in a pair of low rise jeans, ‘And the 21st century’ one drawled.
Together we stared at the fly button holes – they had tufts of my knicker wrapped pubic hair sticking out of them.
I declared them a NOWAYNOTEVERAREYOUJOKING? and my daughters told me to get a Brazilian and buy them. In reverse order.
A shouting match ensued. We made up over frothy coffee and cake in John Lewis. Denim never tasted so good.