Shirt.

Started my new job Saturday morning, as planned. Well, I didn't really start start: there was just a couple of hours of induction-type stuff. But it was boring and uncomfortable and I'm going to get paid for it, so you might as well call it work.

One of the two hours was taken up by sitting in a freezing cold room and watching a training video. I kid you not. An hour-long training video, for a job in a cornershop. It had all sorts of helpful advice and useful tips, like "Don't put the six kilo bag of spuds in on top of the eggs", "Don't sell absinthe, cigars and lighter-fluid to twelve-year-olds", and "Don't piss on your hands before handling the raw meat".

So anyway, there's a uniform. Which is okay, because you don't want to get urine and steak juice on your own clothes. The uniform is a top with the chain's logo on it, worn over a white shirt and black trews. Now, whilst I do in fact possess black trousers, the buckles and other bits and bobs on them might not go down to well. Which meant that I had to go out this afternoon and aquire some.

"You shop like a man," my boyfreind told me later. Cheapo department store, work clothes, for the buying of! Quick march! White shirts, two, pair of horrible cheap black trousers, one! Cash register! By the right, quick march! Hup, two three four! Hup, two three four! Well, buying work clothes isn't fun and you know exactly what you have to get. Why drag it out, right?

Okay. You're ahead of me here, I can tell.

Thing is, a few days previous, there was a jeans incident. I really needed a new pair of narrow-fit black jeans, found some going cheap, bought the next size up from my usual size because, y'know, moving, busy, junk food. Damn things always shrink in the wash anyway.

A couple of days later I tried them on. They did actually do up, eventually. What you do is, you lie flat on your back on the bed, wriggle like a landed fish and swear a lot. They were a bit on the tight side but after a while I broke them in. There was a bit more room once my kidneys popped out of my ears.

Therefore it seemed prudent to buy trousers two sizes up from my usual size. Can always take them in once the old tummy goes back down, right?

So I get this kit home and try it on. The shirts are my usual size and they fit okay, although they have three-quarter length sleeves, something I didn't notice when I bought them. Then I put on the trousers.

They're a tad on the generous side.

Not only can I pull the waistband about four inches out from my waist, but the damn things flop around my feet as though I'm wearing a skirt round each knee. I waddle awkwardly into the bedroom and check out the effect in the full-length mirror. My sleeves stop just below my elbows. My trousers billow out arount me like something in full sail.

Behold. Bozo the Clerk. Look on my works, ye mighty, and use the fitting rooms.