Two Legs, One Needle and a Sunday I’ll Never Get Back
It’s hot in Gauteng. Properly hot. The kind of hot where you start the day looking like a CFO and end it looking like you’ve run to work. They installed a new aircon in my office last week. I’m told it works. I live in hope. So yesterday I went shopping for short-sleeved blouses. I came home with trousers. Green ones. Olive, khaki, army, I’m not sure what the label calls it, but whatever colour they are, it’s been a gap in my wardrobe for ages. And they fitted beautifully. Through the waist and hips, anyway. Below that, they carried on for quite some distance after my legs had stopped. I’m 166 centimetres tall, these were cut for someone who changes light bulbs without a ladder. A normal person would take them to be shortened. I have never, in my whole life, sent a pair of trousers to be shortened. I hem them myself. Saturday was for work. Sunday is for personal admin. And this morning, personal admin was me, a needle, a reel of cotton and a pair of olive trousers I wanted to wear to t...