Explaining a cream of vegetable shirt

Press, 23 November 1987, Page 18

Explaining a cream of vegetable shirt

Disasters of the personally embarrassing kind always happen in town, and increase in proportion to the distance you are from home and a change of clothing.

This observationdrifted through my brain seconds after the evening diet drink and exploded under pressure,, showering the office cafeteria and my teal shirt with a spray of cream of vege soup.

The cafeteria could be wiped clean, but what to do with a teal shirt and matching tie sporting a decidedly yellow, spotted look?

One could argue this was the new fashion trend, but how to explain the distinctive cream of vege aroma wafting from the shift front? Smart colleagues were unlikely to be convinced that Pierre Cardin had moved into the soup business. They would more accurately suspect that their bearded coworker was merely one who could not be' trusted to make soup without causing a mess.

The accident was the price to be paid for being abysmal at high school physics and never appreciating how powdered contents and hot water will expand if shaken in a sealed plastic container. Alas, the naive twit happily mixed the contents, sealed the container and gave it a vigorous shake, only pausing to express wonder as the lid flew off and a spray of yellow soup went “whompf” across him, the wall, the sink top and the window.

Accidents of this nature are a marvellous appetite suppressant A tea towel was commandeered for a rapid Sponging operation on the shirt Problem: every dab created a wet messy patch.

Within a few minutes the soup was gone but I now resembled a rather aging contestant in a wet tee-shirt competition. The more pressing concern was how to wipe the rapidly congealing soup from the window.

So far the drama had been played out alone, but just as the vigorous window washing was drawing to its close, a colleague marched into the room. He was confronted with the sight of a reporter in a transparent wet shirt washing the cafeteria window with a tea towel.

“Mother always insisted I keep my room tidy,” I said with as much dignity as could be mustered in the circumstances. Then I fled and hid in the toilet, emerging when the shirt had dried.

Inevitably most disasters that befall us involve clothing: the runny egg that uneerringly makes for your tie; the gravy that majestically courses down your shirt, always missing the tiny napkin provided by the restaurant; chocolate-covered children who, when ordered to clean themselves, turn to the nearrest available adult and regard his shirt as a handkerchief with buttons. But the worst social disaster involving clothing is the traitorous zip in trousers. These fas-

Wilsons Week...

teners never fail at home, but a good 20minute bus ride from your wardrobe and it is panic time. This happened in the office once when cold air was sensed in a region where no cold air should be sensed. Brain told eyes to check south for confirmation. Eyes widened in horror and told brain to find a menswear shop, and fast. “The drama league’s doing ‘Hunchback of Notre Dame.’ I must audition for Quasimodo,” I threw as an excuse, exiting from the building in a crouched run.

Buying a new pair of trousers represents no difficulty for slim-hipped chaps, but the larger the girth the smaller the range in garments on the rack. ‘

At shop after shop a little tragedy was played out. The crouching customer asked for trousers, large and quickly please. "Certainly, Sir. Shall we just run the tape measure around Sir? My, we are a large lad aren’t we?”

Yes, we eat our greens. Now trousers, my man. And hurry. “Oh dear, Sir. We’ve nothing in your size. There’s little demand, you see.”

I’m demanding. Does that help? “We could order you a pair, Sir. May take a week or two." . Meanwhile I die of indecent exposure. No thanks, I shall take my embarrassment elsewhere.

On it went until finally at a shop ... “Trousers? Yes, Sir. We’ll just run the tape around you, shall we?”

No we shall not. Sir now knows his waist measurement better than he knows his telephone number. Have you anything that would fit? “Only the curtain on the changing room, Sir,” he sniffed.

In Fiji I could call it a sulu and get away with it. Not here.

Eventually Quasimodo’s eys peered over the counter of a chemist shop and his voice asked: “Packet of safety pins please.”

Some emergency repairs in a toilet and a now vertical Wilson hurried back to work and hid behind his desk all day, for fear people