I used to dress my daughter, literally, in the first thing I found. If that was a fire engine T-shirt and a pair of tartan stretch-pants, then so be it. I suppose I had the vague idea that it doesn’t flippin’ matter what a one year old wears. It doesn’t really matter what anyone wears. In my ideal world, you could go to an interview in a fire engine T-shirt and tartan stretch pants, and still get the job.
Then, my wife began, without a word, changing my daughters clothes after I’d already dressed her. “Oh, so I can’t dress my own daughter, can I?” My stupid brain went. “Well, we’ll just see about that.”
It’s not much fun being a proper bloke. I gather. There’s a limited number of things you’re allowed to be interested in. Cars. Football. Beer. Possibly collecting something really boring like stamps or vinyl records. That’s about it. I have nothing against those things, but there’s so much more to life. Something I wouldn’t necessarily bring up in blokey company is that I watch “The Great Interior Design Challenge”. It’s incredibly exciting to find out whether the colonial style bedroom will beat the Bauhaus boudoir to the final four. In that program people talk about colours “Working”.
I waited for my chance to prove my wife wrong. Then, one morning, I followed these simple steps. 1. Open a draw. 2. Choose an item of clothing at random. 3. Open another draw. 4. (This is the important bit.) Choose another item of clothing of a similar colour to the first item, or that has a similar colour in it. 5. Repeat until daughter is dressed.
When my wife saw our daughter, all matching and coordinated, she looked at me like I was a dog that had just said “hello”. “You dressed her?” She kept asking. My triumph was complete. For a moment.
“Is that peanut butter all smeared down her front?” She asked.
“Er, yes.” I nodded sadly. “And milk. And Humus. But that on her sleeve, it’s ketchup, not blood.”