|The offending shirt in an offending pose.|
"I love that shirt," I protested.
"Then why don't you wear it?"
"Because it's shrunk." Even as I said it I knew this wasn't the strongest argument for saving my t-shirt.
Tracey glanced meaningfully at my belly and then ever so briefly on my B cups before asking, "You're sure about that?"
We're having new carpet laid in one of the bedrooms tomorrow, which means we've spent the night emptying that room of anything touching the floor.
Given this is the room Miss17 recently moved out of, you'd be forgiven for thinking it should be pretty much empty already. Reality is, however, it's become the family dumping ground for everything from the vacuum to blankets to washing to odd chairs I didn't even know we had.
Naturally, because we're cleaning out this room, Tracey has decided to go through the whole house like a dose of salts, and the first thing Tracey always does when she's in a 'this house needs an enema' mood is to start tossing out my stuff.
Now I would argue heavily I'm not a hoarder but, with the exception being my kids' stuff (especially the little bits of toys I step on, which I gleefully bin every chance I get) I don't like throwing stuff out. I have a shirt I bought on our honeymoon in Thailand. It's got paint stains all down one side but it's survived every cull in the 12 years since I brought it home: mainly because I hide it amongst Tracey's things.
Unfortunately, though, my 'Clones are people two' t-shirt was already in her clutches.
"Fine," I said. "Throw it out."
"You throw it out," grinned Tracey, tossing it over to me. Like I wasn't suffering enough!
"Fine," I said, issuing a heavy protest sigh. There's no point arguing with your gaoler.
"Hey," Tracey called after me. I knew that cheeky tone. She was about to go for the slam-dunk. When I turned she was pulling out handful after handful of my t-shirts from the cupboard. "Do you want me to throw out all your other shirts which have shrunk?"
"No," I said, defeated. "I'll have nothing left to wear."