Angry Jeans

I spent yesterday being slightly out-of-sorts and came to the conclusion it was because I was wearing Angry Jeans.

Angry Jeans are the sort of jeans that only skinny Minnie’s can get away with, and if you get conned into buying any you spend the whole day feeling like a sausage, especially if you are not in fact a skinny Minnie. (Creative licence with the feelings of a sausage, okay?) I made the mistake last year of trying to be hip, and went into a hip sort of boutique in order to find the perfect pair of jeans. I knew it was hip because the thump of bass was making the buttons rattle.

I must explain that since the whole nearly bankrupt business in 2008 (giving up work to write novel using savings, finishing with £10 left at the start of a giant recession) I am a bit careful with money, and don’t often treat myself (although slowly getting back into the swing of it, haha). Hence going out to buy a pair of good jeans was a Big Deal. But let’s get back to the tale...

I explained to the giant fringe (all I could see of the assistant) that I wanted boot-cut jeans, as my sumo calves are not quite built for drainpipes, unless it is a drainpipe with a ferret caught somewhere ungainly. Fringe told me that boot-cut wasn’t very fashionable. I held firm. Fringe pointed a few pairs out. I accepted them (wondering why the hell I was still in the shop, but grimly determined) and spent twenty minutes wrestling and hopping around the dressing room in a fetching manner. After explaining none of them actually fit, I was handed a pair of skinny Minnie’s that did sort of fit, at a push, and was so desperate to leave that I bought them on the spot.

I now call them my Angry Jeans.

They are too snug in the ankle and calf department, and are seemingly only for females who have three centimetres separating their crotch and their waist. Hoist them up and ouch. Let them hang and those are your knickers.

Every so often I forget they are my Angry Jeans, and wonder why I feel slightly cross all day. So yesterday I sifted through my entire jean collection (six pairs) and separated them into Angry Jeans, Tatty Jeans and Acceptable Jeans. Two were Angry, three were Tatty, and only one was Acceptable (and sadly ten years old). It was time for new denim!

So today I sallied out at lunchtime. Forget hip boutiques with thumping bass – I went to Next. I now own two new pairs, and am really hoping they will both be Happy!