It's now seven days since I bought my $20 jeans from the House of Kmart (purveyors of haute couture to the rich and famous). I have worn them each of those seven days and they have finally moulded themselves into a comfortable expanse of denim across the hips. (Where I say "hips", I of course refer to the whole hip-posterior-gluteus-maximus ensemble, which - let's be honest here - is where it's all going on.) All well and good, except that over seven days, these here jeans have also attracted an alarming medley of grass stains, mango stains, ye olde cider stains, hair of dog and dandruff of cat and poo of duck. They need a wash. When they get their wash, they will shrink, and I'll be back to gingerly easing myself into them.
So I'm going to try, in the interests of blood flow to the lower torso, not to wash 'em, for as long as I can possibly hold out. Of course, commentators across the nation will be holding their collective breath. How long can she abstain from jean-washing before her pants threaten to fall off in a pile of rancid tatters or her friends invest in nose-plugs? Will she be able to get through the next week of posho Christmas parties? Can she pass this off as conscientious water conservation in these drought-benighted times?
Watch this space, comrades.