'tis with a heavy heart, and on a Monday morning as well, that I bring you bad news. It's about the belt, the one with the built in bottle opener. If I didn't feel so pissed off about it I'd take a picture to show you its beauty, so you could fully appreciate my mental anguish and turmoil.
Last Saturday things seemed so full of promise, the future was bright and smelled of leather. Life, with the new bottle opening belt and all it entailed, was rosy. We started off the week together, everywhere I went the belt came too. By mid morning on Monday I had the first glimmer of uncertainty. Each time I got up from my desk I had to pull the belt tight, the brilliant belt that has no holes and no pokey sharp thing in the buckle to put in the holes, sorry if that was too technical. It barely registered with me that I had to do this pulling up thing.
On Monday night I spent about an hour too long trying to figure out if I'd been doing the belt up incorrectly. All the permutations I tried, all the googling to see pictures of the belt and all my brainpower indicated that I was doing everything correctly. I persevered though, the smell of brown leather, it blended in with the weather. I bet you don't know what song that line's from do you?
Okay it didn't blend in with the weather but I enjoyed it, almost as much as I was a bit too fond of the way the belt looked.
As the week progressed the relationship deteriorated. The five minute walk over to Tesco at lunchtime was fraught with stress and tension, or more accurately stress and no tension. I had to pull my trousers up and pull the belt tight at least three times in those minutes and not once did I find myself in desperate need of a bottle opener. Still I persisted. Soft leather might wear in and the belt might get better I hoped.
Each time I got out of the car, stood up from my desk or pretty much moved there was a quick shuffle as I pulled it tight and yanked up my jeans a bit. It still looked good but this was form over function, unless one considered the bottle opening function. Thank god there weren't little belts involved, thank god I wasn't sticking with the belt just for the sake of the little ones, that never works.
Friday was the final straw. Those viewings with the very nice estate agent. By this time I was so conscious of the belt that I could feel it loosening with each footstep. Each time I got out of her car I had to pull it tight and I caught her looking at me slightly weirdly. This wasn't good.
Still I persisted. I tried bending the metal a bit, I tried to take my mind off the issue as the day wore on. The bending did nothing and I found out that it's hard to take your mind off the fact that your trousers are falling down and the whole world can see your arse crack. Age, looks and ability aside this probably means I'll never make it as a male stripper. Or a metalworker.
Saturday saw me and K strolling around the shops and I picked out another belt. It's got similar leather to the previous one but it's got a proper buckle and a proper spike with real holes. It doesn't come undone, yet it seems like a pale imitation.
This means that in a week I've now spent £65 on getting one usable belt. The stylish, good looking form over function one sits abandoned by my bed waiting for a bottle that needs to be opened. If the need arises I think I'll take the bottle to it and open it with a different bottle opener while the belt looks on, just to torment it like it tormented me.
That'll teach the bastard thing to play with my emotions like that.