Clothed In Stupidity

Every holiday, I am filled with fear. A raw, primal terror that clenches its icy fist around my heart and consumes me utterly, making me shiver, shudder and scream like a small child confronted with a large, angry bear.

Clothes shopping.

The two words herald tedium, embarrassment and general rubbishness. The endless shops, changing rooms and mockery as you accidentally pick a t-shirt three sizes too small and end up looking like a less shiny Barbie doll that's been through the washing machine. I go clothes shopping before each holiday, gathering in clothes to last me until the next holiday. It's a horrific ritual on par with the sacrifices on the Aztec temples.

Today was that day, except it was not like before. Usually the entire family troopsaround town, with me and Max moaning incessantly, Dad making sarcastic remarks and Mum urging the weary soldiers on with encouraging declarations like: "After the next six shops, we can go and have a packet of crisps!"

This time it was different. I ventured forth alone (well, with Anna) and purchased three t-shirts. However, one problem solved did not prevent another arising. What the hell is up with this year's clothes? It's all bright colours like lime green and sunshine yellow! Cheerful perhaps, but with the unfortunate side effect of making you look like a parrot. There are little effeminate buttons on everything, or hoodies with random cartoon characters emblazoned across the chest with no apparent purpose other than to give a passer-by something to squint at.

It's ridiculous, and made picking the t-shirts unnecessarily difficult. I blame Andy.