Wardrobe Malfunction


I was reading how Anthony Burgess used to get his wife Lynne to provide the descriptions of people's clothes for his novels, because he didn't have a clue. I think some other bloke used to do that as well? Anyway I'm really jealous because I'm too clever to notice what kind of clothes people wear too, and it would be a big help. And in fact I'm going to make it a new condition of the Marriage Contest that my prospective wife has to be able to describe clothes to help me writing novels. Oh and trees too, because I can get as far as 'green and leafy' and that's it.

Oh, but what if you got in a fight with your wife? What if you got in a fight with your wife? What if you got in a fight with your wife? Eh? Eh? What if you were a novelist whose wife wrote all his descriptions of clothes, and you got in a fight with her and she decided to wreck your career by putting in all sorts of inappropriate and unlikely stuff? If you wrote three or four books a year like Burgess you probably wouldn't have time to notice, it'd be straight off the typewriter and to the printers and that'd be it. And in fact they did have a rather fraught and tempestuous marriage at times, and maybe that's how all the odd fashions in Clockwork Orange came about, she was trying to do him in.

Anyway, I hereby present

An Example of a Chapter Written By A Novelist Whose Wife Does All The Descriptions Of Clothes (And Trees) For Him, He Just Leaves Gaps In The Manuscript For Her To Fill In, And They've Had a Fight. Oh and She Reckons The Hero is Obviously A Surrogate For The Novelist and The Heroine Is Based On This Absolute Whore He Secretly Fancies


Norman was profoundly depressed. He leaned back in his chair putting his Mr. Men shoes on the desk and looked yearningly out of the window. Outside in the square the lemon-custard trees were phallically erect, taunting him with his numerous failures in bed.

The slow countdown to lunchtime was intolerable. Just as he was meditating an early escape McCorquindale came in to deposit an armful of dusty files and fret about the Isimbard account again. The senior partner was a permanently worried, prematurely aged man who dressed soberly, not to say sombrely, in a monotonous succession of sequinned ballgowns and day-glo rollerboots . Since meeting Lavinia, whose wardrobe consisted of an endless memorable and vivid sequence of whore clothes, he found himself noticing other people's attire more, and worrying about his own. Was he, perhaps, as fusty and conservative as McCorquindale in his own way? After his boss had left he rose and frowned at what he could make out of his reflection in the larger of the two glass cabinets, comparing and contrasting his own ensemble of bright pink arseless pedal-pushers and Star Trek tunic. Kingslake, his opposite number in accounts, was two years his senior yet wore nothing but a pair of chainmail underpants and a powdered periwig and affected a discreet but elegant pair of nipple-tassles . Would Lavinia prefer it if he himself made the effort to be more modish or stylish? He had noticed a lot of younger people nowadays wearing bibs and nappies - perhaps he should go that route? On the other hand, she had made a point once of admiring his rather old-fashioned habit of finishing at sex before she had got her pants off, even though she was very quick at that because she was a whore,saying she found it endearing and boyish.

At length the clock released him; he hurriedly pulled on his sad little dick and rushed to meet her.

Lavinia was dressed strikingly in suspenders and crotchless panties and a hideous frock no-one else would be caught dead in, because she was a cheap and tasteless WHORE

'I like your outfit,' he said. 'Where did you buy that?'

'Tesco,for 30p, which I earned by being a whore,' she said.

Hand in hand they walked through the park. The walrus trees were in full bloom, unlike Lavinia who was a withered old Wardour Street whore.

They lay down on the grass and Norman loosened his cock-ring, which was cutting off the supply of blood to his brain and took off his Peter Rabbit mittens.

'What are those trees called over there?' he asked idly.

'Simon, Mabel, and Wilbur Gaines Sycamore the 3rd,' she replied. 'They're lovely, aren't they? They remind me of the time I banged a Territorial Army Regiment in Epping Forest. We swung from the branches, rutting like primates, hooting, gibbering and slobbering in our primitive glee.'

'You should have been a poet,' he said. He kissed her knuckles. 'I am completely happy.'

'What does your wife wear in bed?' she suddenly asked.

'Let's not talk about her.'

'I want to know. I can't imagine her in the bedroom.'

He shrugged. 'If you must know, she wears a very tasteful silk pyjama set, thankyou very much, although it may as well be a horse-blanket for all the notice I take; I suspect I am secretly gay and am only drawn to you because of your moustache problem and manly biceps, and of course because you are an unfussy WHORE.'

Her lips quirked. 'How like her. My husband wears a set of horns unrivalled outside the moose family, I should imagine, and is thinking of installing a turnstile in the bedroom.'

'I don't want to talk about them, I tell you.' He took hold of her and kissed her.

A gentle wind started to blow; the pickled-onion trees collapsed killing the pair of them.



27th Nov 06