Waist Management.

 At the moment I am wearing a pair of 32 inch waist jeans, a pair of 34 inch waist jeans and a pair of 36 inch waist jeans. Not at the same time. In rotation, like a Medieval peasant's feudal strip, but with turn ups instead of turnips. The other day when I was out trouser shopping I tried on a pair of straight-leg, slim-cut corduroys. I like the idea of corduroy, but have never quite managed to pull it off. (I just flashed back to a pair of chocolate brown ones I had in the 90's - stitched gold W's on each arse cheek, frayed hems - yet another reason why the 90's shouldn't make a comeback). The corduroys looked like they had been cut on the smaller side, so I erred on the side of caution: I picked up the 36 waist. 

Now, I think I'm a 34 inch man. And even that is frighteningly fat. The 32 inch waist jeans I've had a long time and they've grown fond of me - they are accommodating my increased girth as a friendly gesture. 34 is where I sit naturally. The 36 inchers I bought in a supermarket during the pandemic and they would fall off me if I wasn't wearing a belt. So I wear a belt. And when I picked up the 36 inch corduroys I was heading on down to comfort town. 

Obviously, that's not the case. That's not how these blogs work, is it? Loads of things go right for me all the time: I had a pleasant walk today and avoided the rain. I had some St Agur on toast, with a pot of Earl Grey. Delicious. I had some good feedback on a film I made. I'm listening to Talking Heads and enjoying it. But this doesn't get in the blogs. The griping does. These are rather unbalanced, unrepresentative diaries. But misery sells. Not that I earn any money off this total waste of time. 

When I tried the 36 inch corduroys on they were slightly too tight. Just slightly. I mean, I could have got away with it and told myself "I'll probably lose some weight anyway". I quite often tell myself this. But they were slightly too tight. They were a good shape too - they looked great on. But realistically, I needed the 38 inch. I sloped back to the pile, picked up a pair of 38s. The waist fitted beautifully, but everything else had been sized up. They were no longer slim and tapering into an elegant calf, but chunky and squared off. They were the corduroys of a gentleman farmer or a country doctor. If I bought them I would have to start cultivating eyebrows on my cheeks. It's the country way. 

So my waist is simultaneously 32 inches and 38 inches. Schrodinger's gut. That's a six inch differential,  the size of an averagely engorged human penis. I've got the variable of a hard cock playing about my belt-loops. How can this be? An inch is an inch. It's a precise measurement, a boringly static 2.54 centimeters every single day of it's life. Its one twelfth of a foot - from the Latin "uncia" meaning "one twelfth of a foot". It is immutably and forever an inch. 

So it must be me. I am not an abstract concept like a unit of measurement. I'm made of meat and fat and sugar and hair and phosphorus. I'm real. I'm here - standing in your way. And clearly I am waxing and waning like a fat moon. Clothing manufacturers wouldn't lie - they have exemplary business practices, after all. So it's me, shrinking and growing, increasing and decreasing, like the UK economy depending on whether Liz Truss has made a speech or not. 

I just hope I'm not caught in a 32 inch trouser on a 38 inch day. HULK HAVE STRANGULATED HERNIA.