The Longevity Of Village People.

A day without laughter is a day wasted.

It started off innocently enough with a trip to the metropolis of our area, Oberwart. Actually, I should say Unterwart and its main source of our many visits, Hofer. No, not the Bundespresident elect, but the supermarket chain. Bob loves going there and meandering down the aisles.

A year ago he bought some workman's overalls ( which he uses daily ) but not the workman's pants. By workman's pants, I mean those reinforced pants, those that Bear Grylls tends to wear. They have a hook for hammers, pencils, telephones and numerous other things. Tres sexy indeed.

To this day, each time we are in Hofer, Bob has a look if they have any workman's pants on offer. Last month it was workman's shorts ( seriously, how do you then protect your shins? ), which had Bob in a state of anticipation each time we've gone to shop in the last few weeks.

Well yesterday, he hit the jackpot. Workman's pants, not dungarees, in either black, blue or grey. Bob was beaming form ear to ear and loudly summoned me from the dairy aisle.

" Boo, quickly, quickly, come and have a look! "

The choice of which colour was easy enough, but the size not so much. Workman's pants shouldn't be too tight as one needs to bend and so forth without showing one's underwear, ...Side stepping a mini marital tiff, I eventually told him to get the size he thought was best!

Once we were home and had unpacked the groceries, Bob, in true manly style ( ladies, we'd never do this ) tried on his new purchase in the kitchen. Luckily they fit perfectly and as Bob had also taken off his t-shirt (? ), I looked at him ( and goodness me, he did look rather spiffy ) and said:

" You know, you could be a member of the village people. "

to which his straight faced, coupled with a John Travolta pose, reply was...

..." Young man..."

Biggi