Pants.

I've been on a recent mission to upgrade my pants collection. And, for the benefit of any Americans, I really mean pants here, like you know, the things that your balls and willy actually are held in by, not trousers. And, for the benefit of Sri Lankans, when I say "trousers" I actually mean " a trouser".

Not that long ago I told you about my then new pants collection. Well it didn't seem that long ago, but a quick search on my blog has revealed that it was actually over four years ago. Since then I've added considerably to the collection, but the theme has remained one of Odel. There have been flowery ones, more striped ones and a generally good and colourful selection of undergarments have prevailed.

But recent visits to Colombo's finest (only) emporium have proved disappointing. It seems that these type of pants aren't around any more and I felt the need to update and upgrade. It was either that or wash them anyhow.

So the other day I could have been found lurking in mens' pants in Odel. The cheap bright ones were nowhere to be seen but there were plenty of nasty ones, the sort your Dad would wear, just not much in the way of my last collection. Before you could say "kids with jeans hanging low and showing their arse crack" I found myself browsing at those Calvin Klein ones.

I perused the options and settled on a sort of cross between a boxer short and Y front as my choice. The things were all boxed up with a photo of a muscular looking white bloke hung like a horse on each. I'm not one to fall for all this marketing hype, so merely paused to think about how much the chap looked like me before selecting about five or six pairs to buy.

Size, contrary to what they say, did matter. Trying on pants in most shops is not permitted; a great thing if you're concerned  about trying on a pair that Johnny Smelly had tried on and rejected twenty minutes ago, but a not so great thing if you're me trying to figure out what size you need.

I played the dangerous card and went for medium, knowing that small would have been a laughable option, not because of the size of my wedding tackle mind, and the only question was whether to go large or one down.

Off I went to queue at the checkouts and wait for the tourists in front of me to peer at their currency and try to figure out which notes were which and then pay for all that bargain clothing that they'd mostly end up never wearing anyhow. And a T shirt or two about saving dogs or something.  The checkout chap asked if I wanted them taken out of the boxes, to which I gave an affirmative. As a slightly serious aside isn't all this packaging just ridiculous? I'm sure I'm one of many who have no need for it and would rather see the environment protected in some small way.

A short while later and I was back at C's place trying them on. My first reaction was that they were a bit scratchy. I wondered whether this was because they were brand new and needed a wash to soften things up. Turns out I was right about that.

The choice of medium was perhaps not one of my best. There didn't seem to be a lot of room for manoeuvre and the waistband was making me do that thing stomach holding in thing that most middle aged blokes do when in the presence of
attractiveany women at all. Nevertheless I decided to give a pair a trial run out in public that evening.

I did, to discover that overall comfort was somewhat lacking. Not only that but I found my jeans sliding down to reveal the waist band of the pants, big Calvin Klein graphics and logo for all to see. Seriously I promise you I really didn't want this to happen but it did. I wasn't trying to look like Snoopy Snoopy Dog Dog or Sebastian Posingis or one of these sex gods, that's what happens when you wear these pant things. It's like it's built into their DNA or something.

So the next day I could have been spotted in that other place, Roma Four, buying a selection of almost definitely fake Paul Smith ones in a rather nice variety of colours in a size they call large.

I'm persisting with the Calvin Kleins but not as my everyday pant. I forgot to tell you earlier that being a drummer means that extended periods of playing, sitting there on the stool make me highly prone to what's technically known as "drummer's arse".

And drummer's arse means that high spec pants are often required, otherwise one can get home after an energetic band practice or gig and find all sorts of creatures and nasties nesting in there. It's so bad that sometimes I fail to even get a week of wear out of one pair of pants. Honestly I kid you not.

I live alone by the way.