It was my birthday on Saturday. Added extra Easter Birthday goodness, which doesn’t come around too often. I had a good day, with presents and well-wishes and a little baby cake from Brunettis just for me. Even my presents from my fambily came in on time (very rare for my family; we don’t believe much in the post). My sister sent me a range of presents, including a three-pack of underwear. And I do recall sending her a three-pack of underwear for Christmas. It is becoming our leitmotif, albeit with a bit less leit than usually seen in the German. Well, it’s better than our previous leitmotifs, which include:
- the patented Dance of Joy
- who can dye their hair the oddest colour
- who gets the top bunk vs bottom bunk, and whether it is wrong for this debate to have continued into our twenties.
So this underwear is, of course, still on the coffee table in the lounge along with the rest of my presents, right where I unwrapped them days before. Mr. T and I were watching TV tonight, each with a pair of underwear on our heads. (The third pair had unsuccessfully been placed on a dog’s head, but didn’t really take.) They’re cute cotton undies, with snowflake designs and a little transfer on each pair. Mr. T was wearing a particularly fetching ice-skating monkey. As I gazed at it, I mused aloud, “When you start to look at that monkey, he’s got a real Edvard Munch thing going on. That is one unhappy primate.”
Mr. T replied reasonably, “Well, he’s a monkey. They’re not designed for ice skating. His legs are probably killing him.”
This struck me, oddly enough, as one of the funniest thing anyone had ever said. I sat on the couch, laughing uncontrollably, mopping the tears from my eyes using the undies on my head.
