I can't imagine what I was thinking when I bought that dark blue and cyan striped shirt. It's just not me. The shirt obviously knew this before I did, and now broods on its hanger like Gesmas on his cross. The buttoned collar forming a deep and abiding frown; the cuffs aching to give me the finger if they could; even the washing instructions are seething.
Suffice it to say, the shirt undoubtedly believes it would be having a better time on someone else's shoulders. It is the sort of shirt you might wear while playing jazz piano at an after-hours nightclub; or you might roll the sleeves up when cooking beef bourguignon, taking occasional gulps from a glass filled with a variety of red wine that you always describe as "cheeky."
None of these things is my thing. Which is just as well, since I feel that it is the shirt of a popinjay; a womanising parvenu with bleached hair, cowboy boots and an earring. For some reason, the name Englebert Humperdink springs to mind, although I am sure that he is actually none of those things, either.