This seriously and deeply held life philosophy is (or used to be, at least) particularly keenly felt among Western Australians. It goes like this - the more time you spend in shorts the better your life is, because de facto, you spend more time avoiding scenarios where short wearing is frowned upon, i.e. boring office jobs, having tea with vicars, or being cold. In WA, farmers wear pinstriped shorts to meetings with their bank managers.
As a follower of the faith, my shorts became my personal objects of hallowed veneration, especially when they picked up dog bite tears, surfing accident rips, and curry and engine oil stains from more than one continent. “When I die, send them to the British Museum,” I told my completely bemused and not interested other-half.
Later, in Scotland, I learned to find trooser clad jollies and thereby avoid regular hypothermia. Now my multi-decade old shorts remain in a drawer. But occasionally a pair is brought out for a fortnight’s holiday, like a ‘Nam’ Vet’s combat jacket – ‘I was there, man!’ Although my 13 year old son regularly tells me, “They’re not cool, Dad”.
Now that’s a challenge. Yesterday I replaced a broken drawstring with a fluorescent green lace from his trendy sneakers. They now fit my middle-aged girth. Ha! Helping a middle-aged, middle-class father embarrass his kids with his fashion choices. There’s quality of life in the old faithfuls yet!
