53: A World Without Beer: Week 14

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.


Well, we're on the final stretch now, people! The end is in sight. Less than one week until this ridiculous self-imposed charade is over.

Ironically, I've kind of settled into the groove now. While I miss the idea of having a pint, I've been 'dry' for so long that I'm just sort of used to it. Not that it's going to continue. Unless something clicks in the next seven days, I haven't turned into that "actually, I think I'll just give up for good" person twat that I feared was round the corner.

As a result of me being unnervingly content, there's even less to write about it. Oh, I still really miss white wine. our lass had some the other night and it smelled fucking gorgeous. Looking forward to an ice-cold Pinot Grigio may be keeping me sane. Yes, I know how that sounds.

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In other news, I was walking out of Sainsburg's on Friday afternoon, and the guy in front of me was leaving with some dry-cleaning he'd collected. Now using my keen skills of assumption deduction, I noticed he was with his wife/girlfriend and was in fairly presentable clothes. Which is to say the pair of them were wearing casual, clean clothes.

I can hear you from here : "Well maybe he was picking his suit up? Or his dry-clean-only coat?"

Alas, no. He was picking up his army uniform. Not a dress-uniform, like an officer's suit or spangly-parade version; He was picking up his desert-camo gear. I could see it through the bag. Now I know that you're still scratching your head over there: "...and?"

It just set me wondering; how insanely impractical is it to have your military forces wearing dry-clean-only uniforms? Why didn't he just do it in the machine? He looked presentable enough, he's clearly got the facility to wash his own clothes. I'm fairly certain it was his uniform, as his build and hair would suggest he'd be in the armed forces. Even if it wasn't his, it was someone's.

I just don't think it gives off the fearsome-warrior impression if our guys are out in Basra, up to their necks in insurgents, and the sounds you hear in between the gunfire are a mincing "Ooh, look at that! Mud! I'll never get that out! I had to take these trousers back twice last week because of the blood! And he was going to bloody charge me again!"

While I'm sure that the uniforms can be dry-cleaned, I can't believe that they're dry-clean only. That'd just be fucking stupid. Now I know the next thing you're thinking: "Why didn't you go and ask him, then? There are two reasons:

One: The aforementioned thoughts cascaded over the next 5 minutes or so. We went in different directions after Sainsburg's, so by the time I'd reached the conclusion that it was fucking stupid, he was nowhere to be seen.

Two: Inevitably, the question would have worked its way down to me, a thirty-something unfit man, telling him, a thirty-something trained killer, that his choice of garment-cleaning was "fucking stupid". I have little doubt that it would have happened. Because when my twisted logic grabs me, real logic seems to go out of the window.

Fuck it, I'll never know. And neither will you.
...I need a drink.

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.