Please tell me you are having a laugh?
I asked my brother disbelievingly.
He had just informed me that he didn't have a suit and had thought that at the funeral we were going to this week he could wear his jeans and denim shirt.
Eh, naw. Why would I be having a laugh?
My brother bristled at my tone.
I paced up and down before him before turning and pointing a finger at him.
It's a funeral, you and I are two of the four carrying the fucking coffin and you say you are going to wear your fucking pyjamas?
I half spat.
I didn't say I was wearing my pyjamas.
He replied sulkily.
Just about.
I sighed and looked upward before taking a deep breath.
Do you have a black or dark coloured suit?
I asked through gritted teeth as if a woman with especially large and prominent teeth were felating me.
No, I don't wear suits. I haven't worn a suit since you got married?
I thought back to the suit he had worn that day. It was an impressive double-breasted affair. Light tan in colour and flared of the trouser. It would have wow'ed them all back in the seventies.
Only, I got married in the nineties.
Then let us go and buy you a fucking suit that doesn't make you look like a fucking clown.
I sighed.
My brother made an annoyed face as if weevils had gotten into his flour.
We headed off to the suit shop.
