How pink do trousers have to be before a chap notices that they are not this season's coolest shade of blue; that they are far from that sober gentlemanly black; that they could not even, with artistic licence, be described as grey? This short tale of human frailty suggests that this could be an interesting subject for psychological research, since there are evidently wide variances between individuals.
With the end of the cricket season, the recognition dawned on our unassuming hero, all time Carlton great and Scotland star batter Fraser Fraggle Watts, that his wardrobe was deficient in the stride department. Reduced to a crumpled selection of tracksuit bottoms and grass stained whites, it presented sartorial limitations that could no longer be tolerated by the elegant man about town such as he. In short, his style was being cramped. New kegs were required, and a trip to the shops would be necessary. Fraggle prepared carefully. Extensive research on this internet thingy identified the process of entering a shop, trying on possible leg coverings and exchanging money type stuff for the right to carry them home. He was sure this was a skill that he could master - he had, after all, faced Brett Lee.
After fruitless explorations in Waterstones, Boots and Ann Summers, Fraggle eventually entered a gents outfitters. Perhaps it was then that panic set in. Or perhaps the shop's lighting was fashionably low, dim enough for the umpires to have offered the light. Or perhaps Fraggle was distracted by his engaging banter with the attractive sales girl. Or perhaps the incessant beat of the latest hit of Portobello rap star Dizzeee Khartah in the background took control of his mind. Whatever. What happened next is lost to Fraggle's memory. He woke woozily several hours later, his purchase clutched securely in his hand. But something had happened. A pair of trousers that he firmly recalls as being a shade of navy blue verging on black had mysteriously turned somewhat brighter. Trying them on again in the privacy of his room, there could be no argument. There was a distinct absence of blueness. They were decidedly on the pink side.
Fraggle was stuck. The social event of the year was only an hour away and preparations for the Carlton CC dinner were reaching their zenith. As popular skipper of the club, Fraggle could hardly call off in the manner of 3rd or 4th XI players at the height of the summer who find the beach beckoning. He had even prepared his speech. He would have to risk it.
'Perhaps no one will notice,' he thought to himself as he buckled the belt on his new bags.
Of course they did notice, with varying degrees of sarcasm and fellow feeling. Many were too polite to comment. But the evening was nevertheless a triumph and no one will ever know the truth of what happened in the shop at the moment of purchase. Was the intended purchase really blue? Had a cruel trick been played on our unsuspecting hero? This is how legends and myths begin.