One thing I find perplexing about living with a woman is occasionally being the audience for an impromptu fashion show.
Every so often with The Duchess something in her wardrobe will catch her eye and she will decide to try it on. Then for some reason she will be amazed that it actually fits – as if someone may have surreptitiously placed a rogue item in there or a purchased item spontaneously shrank – and has to model the garment in front of me wherever I am in the house and whatever I am doing at the time.
That will turn into a session of trying on another half a dozen garments, each eliciting a visit to me to wait for my agreement of her opinion that it still fits after x years of not being worn, that it suits her or, occasionally, that it was a bad purchase.
(You have to pay enough attention not to get caught out on those curveballs otherwise it appears as though you’re not joining in.)
There is often the ability to earn points by identifying when and where the garment was purchased, and a bonus by how little she paid.
I find it quite endearing though resist joining in with my own wardrobe, as I can guarantee anything I haven’t worn in the past 6 months will have shrunk in the cupboard.
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