As it was such a lovely crisp and sunny day yesterday I decided to take myself for a walk at lunchtime.
I didn't bother to take my wallet with me, I wasn't planning on going in any shops, it was all about the constitutional.
Enjoying what is a rare middle of the day escape from the office I strolled across Exchange Square, through Liverpool Street Station and was heading towards Finsbury Circus when I noticed my shoe lace had come undone.
I move out of everyone's way, what with it being lunchtime and this being the square mile obviously there were a million people about.
I dive into a little nook which commemorates where St Mary's Catholic Church used to stand in the 1800's and bend down to tie my lace...
I heard it as much as I felt it.
The seam in the crotch of my trousers, splitting.
The shear force of explosion was like the separation of land.
It wasn't the seam my wife had sewn up the previous night after the appearance of a small tear, no by all means kudos her and her sewing skills, that held firm thanks to the double stitching she had applied.
No, it was the seam that goes from front to back that had detached and caused me blind panic.
Well of course the irony that I was stood less than ten yards from three gentleman's outfitters & had not a crumb of cash nor flash of plastic on my person struck me like Ahab's harpoon.
Fear gripped me.
How bad was the tear?
I Stand still and see if I notice an up rise of a breeze...
It was hard to tell, it was warmer yesterday than it has been for months and to make matters worse I had broken out in a hot flush & sweat
I ask myself - Can I attempt to ascertain the depth of the tear without looking like I am:
A- Itching my arse
B- Feeling my own balls
For a moment I try and hazard a guess as to which of these two options would appear the less offensive to the passing hordes.
Ok, so we don't know how bad the tear is, that much we do know - I try to somehow reassure myself.
I scrabble around my frantic mind for a new plan.
Eureka!
I'll stand here and surely someone I know will walk past, I'll borrow some cash from them buy some new trousers and transfer them the money when I get back to the office. Hurrah!
Two minutes of waiting passes before I realise how stupid this option is. Of course a friend, or some random acquaintance may well walk past at some point but who is to say that will be today.
For one very brief moment there is a break in the passing crowd and a delivery truck gives me subtle cover from the opposite side of the street. I go for a quick option A and deem the tear to be small enough that it won't be visible as an external arse crack.
I decide that I can make it back to the office, I just can't go up or down any steps in case this aggravates the tear and causes it to expose my bum.
Thank god I'm wearing black boxers, this at the very least will give me some camouflage...
I take the long route back to the office, avoiding all steps but living in constant fear that the tear may be much worse than my brief reach around had suggested.
I pass beneath the building where my Sister-in-law works, could I possibly call her and ask to come to my rescue?
Aside from the embarrassment which would likely be minimal seeing as she will quite often inadvertently expose her gusset, I worry that she may be in a meeting, on a call or just dining with some fellow lawyers and they'll all come down and laugh at me and spread it back to some of the lawyers at the firm I work at.
No, I'm almost at the office now best to keep to the plan.
I make it to my desk, grab my wallet and disappear without making eye contact with any of my team less I need to give an explanation as to why I've returned after a thirty minute absence just to collect my wallet and disappear again.
I lock myself in a cubicle of the gents and survey the damage, it's not good. I would describe the situation as perilous, it's not as bad as it could be but it could deteriorate rapidly if the wrong move is made.
Moving with all the pace and grace of a tape worm I leave the office again and with my fingers crossed I head into 'White Stuff'
I've never liked the look of this shop but surely it'll now come to my rescue and I'll love it for always.
Won't it?
No.
No it flippin' won't because all it sells is jeans, denim jeans and I can not wear jeans in the office during BAU hours.
At this point my Mum happens to call and I blurt out the absurdity of my situation. She of course is sympathetic but is clearly suppressing laughter.
She does however suggest that I could use a scarf to cover the tear if it gets any worse - I attempt to explain to her that walking around with a woollen tail is just as embarrassing as everyone being able to see your pants.
I wish I could laugh.
I move on to the only other Men's cloths shop in Spitalfields that isn't a vintage clothing store - Worn out beige bell bottoms will not be even a last resort!
I'm giving serious consideration to pretending that I have been attacked.
As I suspected this shop is an arm and a leg kind of place. Even in this situation I really can't commit £150 for a pair of trousers.
I'm screwed, I don't have the time to go anywhere else, I've got a conference call in twenty minutes.
With deep fear I head back to the office again when it dawns on me that sitting down may aggravate the situation but I can't possibly spend the next two hours standing at my desk.
My fate is in the hands of the gods now.
I get back to my desk, jack up my chair as high as it will go and lower myself into the seat with as much care as I have ever taken with anything.
An hour and a half later I've hardly moved below the waist and nothing appears to have gotten any worse down there.
The conference call is absolute tedium and I'm dreading the journey home...
