With thanks to Dune.
That’s okay for me to do that, the naming of clothes, but my habit then inflicted on loved ones around me. theWife had a top in her rotation once, a blue affair with some gold embroidery. I immediately and enthusiastically labelled it “Sergeant Pepper!” because it was so wonderfully reminiscent of the clobber as worn by The Beatles on the album as known by that abbreviated name.
Then she stopped wearing the shirt. And, when I asked why she didn’t wear it any more, she labelled me as the cause.
“You ruined it,” she said, her finger pointing in accusation, “ruiner.”
And so I had.
The other night theBoy was wearing a UFO-themed onsie. Without knowing why I declared the pyjamas had a name. “Barrington-Smythe!” I said. And that this was its name from henceforth.
I then immediately lied that theBoy had told me that’s what its name was earlier, all while he was in earshot, which elicited a wail at the accusation.
“HE LIES!” he almost certainly said.
For the rest of the night I called them “Barrington-Smythe”whenever possible and continued to do so upon next morn until he shed them as he dressed for the day.
Barrington-Smythe; UFO pyjamas.
What’s not to love about that?
(1) Which tragically did not survive a wash-cycle, its place taken by Baby Blue.