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Forty-three pounds. Forty-three pounds. Forty-three pounds etc. As it has been deemed mandatory that all menfolk in attendance at sister-wedding next month should be clothèd in black tie I had to visit Moth Broth today to book my outfit for collection from the wedding-proximal fancy southern branch. As expected, the initially-provided trousers based on a waist measurement fitted my waist but didn't fit my arse and legs with any degree of comfort; fortunately whilst the next size up didn't have anything useful like belt loops it did have a set of those tightener-pull-things around the kidney areas which should ensure they stay up. I went for the traditional-styled jacket rather than the allegedly more modern slim-fit version and have been advised that the longer-armed variant (which should hopefully show less than an entire two inches of cuff unlike the size below it) also comes with a bit more space across the back and shoulder which should be much more convenient for toting a youngster and camera. I still think forty-three of the Queen's pounds are a bit much for mere rental though will of course wear what I'm required to wear to avoid my mum moaning at me and recruiting others to moan at me. Still, forty-three pounds is quite a bit for a mere day's worth of use, especially when my Makro DJ only cost about forty pounds to buy to keep, albeit in 1995 and significantly less neatly-fitting (though modifications such as the addition of brace-fastening buttons to the waist improved its ability to not be quite as ill-fitting in all aspects of operation). My shoes have now been returned home from their temporary place in my locker and shall now have to be kept in sight so that I still know where they are next month. My shirt (fortunately of a completely frill-free design and with the rare combination of a comfortably loose collar but no acres of spare fabric round the waste after modification at the point of purchase some years ago) has already been retrieved and washed but I won't be able to practise tying my new actually-tie-able (and thus more easily-loosenable at the point in the evening when loosening it becomes viable) bow tie around it as it's already been taken part of the way southwards by my parents, though I expect I can practise with something else.

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Whilst I quite like the accuracy of a number of my snap judgements I occasionally pop back to re-think them in the light of additional evidence. Some things I would rather leave unexplained in case poking at them makes them unravel but occasionally the odd bit of reconsideration begets further useful insight. In the case of the office bicycling club, it struck me recently that one of the reasons why they're so irritatingly snottily-snob-faced and arrogantly twatty is that they were the sporty kids at school, doing the same thing now but with a different activity, different gear and different methods of the expression of twattiness. It's occasionally mitigated slightly by real life (particularly age and the realisation of non-invincibility) encroaching on the fantasy world in which their brains allow them to picture themselves but the analogy holds throughout a number of comparisons.