Last night No Good Boyo decided to repair his culottes.
It says much about him that he owns a pair of culottes, and even more about my underrated liberalism that I tolerate this deviation.
I insist that he wear them only indoors, on the grounds that he is neither Pablo Picasso nor a Greek fisherman.
As most men grown older they sprout hair from ear and eyeball. Welshmen seem to develop bulbous knees. This leads to unsustainable contradictions with the individual culotte and inevitable rupture.
So, following days of unheeded pointing and whining at his threadbare garment, No Good Boyo decided to repair the rent.
After studying a sewing kit for a good few minutes he vanished in search of scissors, which I had concealed after his attempt to open a jar of gherkins with them.
Some time later he returned with a pair of nail clippers, and produced to cut off the bottom section of the culotte half-inch by half-inch.
He then proposed the resulting uneven flap of linen, with cider and gravy stains intact, as a summer halter-top for our daughter Arianrhod.
Mr Julien Macdonald may need to revamp his Spring Collection in order to retain the title of leading Welsh couturier.
