Grit is a Good Wife

I am doing Good Wifey things. I'm helping Dig sort out his shirts. No, hang on a minute, I'm sorting out Dig's shirts, while he's in front of the computer, sorting out his travel.

While I'm not sure exactly when I acquired this job of clothes attendant to Dig, I know that I did take it off him. Quite frankly, it's a job I had to have for my own sanity. I became unable to bear the consequences of his annual visit to BHS to stock up with cheap, navy blue, brushed cotton shirts that dye everything else lavender, look terrible after the first wash, and break out into a rash of strange pobbly bits.

As an aside, I should say that taking responsibility for Dig's shirts is not because I am a clothes horse. My clothes are a mess. They're ancient, torn, stained. I can't bear any of them, even when I'm wearing them. But I don't have to stand up in front of people telling them where to put their commas. I have to get down on the floor and mop up paint. And if other people's reactions to Dig's BHS shirts have been the same as mine, pity them.

So I'm sorting out Dig's shirts in preparation for his not-holiday. First, I pile up all the shirts with holes in. We need new dish cloths and floor mops. Sometimes Dig looks at a dish cloth strangely and says things like 'Didn't I used to have a shirt like this?' and I'll say 'Don't be silly, we've had that dish cloth ages.'

Next, I remove the shirts with coffee and red wine stains. Some of these may already have done battle with the Vanish stain remover and the stain won. I screw those up and throw them in the drawer I've mentally labelled DIY clothes. Most of my clothes are already in it.

The next bit is most satisfying today because normally there aren't any shirts left for Dig to pack, and then I have to get the DIY shirts out again. But this time Dig is organised, thanks to Good Wife Grit. Last month at the RSPCA shop I fell upon a dozen shirts, all Dig's size, fat around the tummy and stout around the neck, and I got the lot for £30. Two Valentinos, one DKNY, one Jaeger, two Ralph Lauren and not a BHS in sight. I considered trying to bargain the old lady down to £25 for a job lot, but reckoned that was probably a bit cruel and the extra fiver might help a sad kitten.

So Grit is a Good Wife today and is feeling very pleased with herself. I hope it's being appreciated.

There's just one part of the story I'm wondering about, and that is how a batch of perfectly good, expensive shirts, all the same size, style and colour, arrive at the RSPCA shop, just like they'd been levered out from some man's wardrobe.

Let's hope there doesn't arise a cause for them to go back there.