I realised some time ago that were I never to acquire a single item of clobber ever again, there'd be enough liberty print boiler suits (&c.) in my wardrobe to last me for my entire foreseeable life. And so, said I to me, do not buy thyself any more habiliments, especially of the jackety, shirty, skirty, pantsy sort, for thy wardrobe bursteth at the hinges and thou couldst spend thy dollars on goodly works, or tofu, or somesuch.
But then one thing led to another, and within the last month alone, I've gone and got me a pair o' new shoes and a set of pantaloons, pantaloons which I refer to as my chastity-pants, on account of the eight buttons I have to undo whenever I heed the call of my pontine micturition centre. The chastity-pants are knickerbockers. Tomorrow I am going to measure the time spent unbuttoning and buttoning them up. This will be very fun. The truth is, they've already paid for themselves in pelvic floor muscle exercise.
As for mine shoon, never was a knickerbockster so pleased to wear a two-tone buckle-up brogue, or two.
These kids come from Vegan Wares, bespoke cobblers to the Melburnian lentilophile.
And now this is all well and good, and frankly, if you've read this far, you should go off and do something improving immediately, but - here's my pledge - no more. There will be no more chastity pants or shoes or shirts or hats or detachable epaulettes until, unless, the old stuff falls to tatters. I have enough doo-dahs, as my mum would say, to sink a battleship (Terrorism Hotline running hot).