All of my clothes are like vegetables

“All of my clothes are like vegetables.”

I didn’t even dare ask what the hell she meant. We’d just argue for half an hour, me explaining the definition of vegetable, her spouting gibberish, then she’d cry, I’d dry her tears and say sorry, then we’d end up in the shops topping up her bloody wardrobe. Typical Saturday afternoon!

Instead I said. “But you’ve got loads of clothes. If you don’t like them why did you buy them?”

“Oh you just don’t understand. I’ve bought nothing new for weeks now. Clothes don’t last, when you’ve worn them for a while they don’t feel the same, don’t look the same. This top for instance” she said fingering her petit pretty pink shirt/blouse, I don’t know which, “I’ve worn it dozens of times and it just feels, urghh” a shiver ran down her spine. Shivering made her look rather sexy actually, especially combined with a scowling face.

“It’s just heavy, like a sack of potatoes, like a pound of turnips.” Her face looked puzzled at my own puzzled expression. “Can’t you see it, I’ve just worn it so many times now it just weighs down on me, it’s like lugging a bag-full of carrots all the way from town.”

“I like it” I said, “you look really good in it.” I couldn’t go wrong with a compliment surely.

“Oh you have no idea” she shouted. Obviously I could. “You just don’t care what I look like. As long as it’s accessible, that’s all you think about. I could wear Jean-Paul Gaultier and you’d just complain that it took long to get your hands inside.”

“You’re bloody right I’d complain. If I had to undo 50 bloody safety pins to get your top off at night. I’ll tell you what, if you ever get Jean-Paul Gaultier and it takes me 45 minutes to get into your knickers then you’ll be doing without foreplay that night I can tell you.”

“Since when have we ever had 45 minutes foreplay? It doesn’t usually last 45 minutes from first kiss to fag and shower after. Maybe I will wear that dress with safety pins, just to make it last long enough to boil and egg to. Anyway its Versace who did the safety pins, not Gaultier, and that’s ancient bloody fashion history anyway, I bet the pins are all rusted - like this top.”

This conversation was going nowhere; cotton doesn't rust.

“Why don’t you just wear another top. You’ve got loads in your wardrobe. I like it, as I say, but if you don’t, just wear another.” Can’t say fairer than that, I was being perfectly reasonable.

“I can’t wear another. I’ve already told you. All my clothes are like vegetables.”

“You’re just talking rubbish. Clothes aren’t like vegetables. They’re like … well, like clothes. Vegetables you eat, clothes you wear. How can you confuse the two?”

“Oh you’re so bloody ignorant you are. Think you’re so bloody clever with your university degree. A degree in what? Philosophy! That’s blood useful ain’t it. I mean they’re mundane, they sit in the wardrobe like spuds sitting in the rack and after a while they go off, you have to throw them away, buy new potatoes.”

“But you eat potatoes. You don’t buy them just so’s you can throw them away again.”

“Exactly, but if you don’t eat them soon enough they go off and you have to buy more. It’s like clothes.”

“Clothes don’t go off.” Six months we’ve been together now, Sue and me and that’s the third time I’ve got to use the expression ‘clothes don’t go off’, each in a different context. That must be some sort of record.

“Oh you are a clever-clever twat aren’t you. I’m not saying they go mouldy, I’m saying they lose their initial spark, the thing you liked about them isn’t there anymore. One minute they’re a beautiful rainbow of colours, carrying with them an aura of delight, the next minute they’re”

“A sack of potatoes.”

“Exactly” she said, eyes scanning me rigorously for hint of sarcasm. “Like this top, it was lovely when I bought it. It really pushed out my boobs, made my face light up.” I was going to interrupt with another complement but she spurted on, not trusting my interruptions. “Some clothes just don’t last. Some do, my blue suit, I’ve had that for years and it still makes me look gorgeous, but this” again she plucked the offending article “it just doesn’t do it for me any more, the shine’s gone. It’s like a relationship that’s not working.”

“What’s the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Now she was using her crazed vegetable theory against us.

“Oh it means nothing,” she said, eyes suddenly welling with tears.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout at you. I was just saying that I like what you wear. I think you look great in your clothes. But if you don’t feel right in them, if you’re not happy in them, then I’m not going to stop you buying more. I was just saying I didn’t think you needed any new clothes, I’m not saying you’re wrong or anything.”

She looked up and her eyes brightened somewhat, a rainbow forming between the rainfall of tears and the sunlight sparkling from her eyes. “You really mean that. You don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind, no. Though you know as well as I do that we can’t afford it.” The ace card, the conversation was back in my control.

Her face betrayed the calculation going on in her mind. I was being as reasonable as possible, being really complimentary about her and her clothes, clearly open to all suggestions, but pointing out the bloody important point that we didn’t have any fucking money. For god’s sake we were supposed to be saving up to buy a place.

“It needn’t cost much,” a cautious opening gambit, testing the ground.

“Oh yeah, we could try that new place that took over Woolies, Versace dresses £5 each I hear.”

“You sarky bastard. I’m not going to break the bank. It’s a big step for me moving in with you, I’ve never done anything like that before. It’s important I feel good about myself, that I look good. I just need a few new things to wear.”

“As I say, I’m not stopping you, I’m just asking where the money’s coming from.”

“We could try charity shops. You can get some real bargains in charity shops. I’ve got some really nice stuff from charity shops.”

“Have you really?” I asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Oh yes” she said taking the bait, “those red velvet trousers and that blue cashmere jumper you like. And that little black dress I wore to Mike’s party …” She was starting to enthuse, as she so often does.

“So” I interrupted slowly, savouring the moment, “you do have some clothes that aren’t like vegetables.”

“You bastard,” more tears, “Its all a joke to you isn’t it. Everything’ s a fucking joke. I’m suicidal about my wardrobe and all you do is crack jokes.”

Oops. Overstepped the mark there somewhere. “I’m sorry Petal, I was just trying to cheer you up, show you that you did have some nice clothes. I think it’s a really good idea about the charity shop. We could pop into town and look this afternoon.”

The cascade of tears fell away. She stuttered and stumbled through her words, still half sobbing, but determined. “Oh, I didn’t mean here. The charity shops here are awful, just full of junk. I thought we might go to Eastbourne for the day. It’s not far, and you get some really good stuff in the shops there.”

“Eastbourne” I ejaculated. “But there’s nothing in Eastbourne. It’s full of dead people.”

“But the charity shops are really good. There’s loads of them."

"It’s cause some many rich women die there.”

“Oh, you’re really funny sometimes you know,” she said with a winning laugh. A change of tact. “Does that mean yes?” I have to hand it to her, she’s an expert at this argument game.

“Well, I suppose so. We might even be lucky and find a decent pub there. I could look in my CAMRA guide.”

“Oh you are lovely. I won’t spend too much, honest.”

“Yeah, right.” We exchanged a kiss. Before leaving she emptied the boot of the car enthusiastically “just in case we need the space”, passing me bags and baskets of “stuff” that she had been collecting over the six months she’d had the car.

“You didn’t mean what you said did you?” I asked, remembering suddenly that it wasn’t all just a game and that she was something very special.

“What d’you mean?” she said, closing the boot with a thud, satisfied that there was enough space for every decent second hand garment in Eastbourne. “Said when?”

“When you were talking about relationships losing their spark. You don’t think we’re losing our spark do you?”

“Of course I don’t you old twat,” she said, followed by a reassuring kiss.

“That’s good, ‘cause I do love you. Even if you do wear tomatoes.”

“You know as well as I do that tomato’s a fruit.”

And with that, we drove off. To Eastbourne.