I am my Husband's biggest fan. Honestly.
But when it comes to Tennis Gear, I may become a tad disloyal.
We were down in Devon this weekend. Staying with Mother In Law.
Mother in Law had kindly asked me to play tennis with her friends on Bank Holiday Monday.
I kindly refrained. Preferring my nice soft bed and a lengthy breakfast to getting out at high speed to play tennis with some nifty eighty year olds. Who are far better than me.
I have enough humiliation in my life. Who needs more?
So Husband Volunteered.
'I'll play,' he said, somewhat grandly, over his pre-supper whisky and soda.
'Have you any tennis gear?' I asked him. Knowing he didn't. But using that Wifely Concern to back the poor sod into a corner.
'Yup,' he said breezily. 'Got some in a cupboard somewhere.'
My brows furrowed as I conjured up pictures of Green Flash Tennis Shoes, all the rage in 1975, and Fred Perry shorts. Tight enough to damage the balls. As it were.
The morning came. Breakfast was leisurely enough for me. But Husband had to forgo his second coffee to dash upstairs to Kit Himself Up for the tennis game.
MIL and I poured ourselves another cup of coffee and complained about the children for a few minutes. (One of MIL's favourite topics. Say no more)
When down the stairs came the sound of Husband, two steps at a time. Jaunty.
MIL and I turned round to see what he was wearing
Oh My Lord.
Husband was sporting what on first sight appeared to be Underpants. White. Tight.
MIL and I spat out coffee in an agonised and Prolonged fit of Hysteria.
Husband stood there, waiting for us to finish laughing. He does that a lot.
When the first bout had died down, I looked more closely.
Tight Fred Perry shorts were teamed with a pair of brown socks, and BROWN SUEDE SHOES!
OMG. Hysteria won again. And I entered Bout 2 of silent, painful laughter. Tears formed. Stomach hurt. And the wheezing began in earnest. (I wheeze like an old man when I laugh that hard)
MIL was having similar problems on the other side of the table. Her shouts of laughter punctuated my wheezing, so that Husband looked from one of us to the other in a parody of the game he was about to play.
The children playing outside and sensing the fun, pressed their noses against the window, and mouthed, 'What is Daddy wearing?' Their eyes wide. Astonishment written across each dear face.
I couldn't answer. It was impossible to speak any words at all. My mouth was welded open, showing all my dentistry, and I tried in vain to fight the hysteria.
Husband gave up and went to find his tennis racket.
'Is. It. Wooden?' I asked, forcing out the words. Paralysed again by such wit.
Husband wasn't finding any of this very funny any more.
Which made it all the more funny. Of course.
Out he went, and we could see his legs, every inch of them from his groin down to the brown socks.
We gave up. And howled.
The last thing Husband saw as he went were the gaping mouths of his wife and mother through the windows, slapping the table in mirth.
And can you imagine the Eyes of those women as he emerged from his car at the tennis club? Can you?! Can you?!
If only I could have been a fly on the wall.
I think he thought he looked like this...
Only he looked more like this... in white. Oh, dear, I'm off again...