I just might have a new addiction. After my addiction to Fabergé egg/door stops collection that is.
On Sunday, I found myself back at my dealer. I said I would not walk in the front door, then it was to "only look" but I knew. I knew I needed the rush of standing on that tiny platform as an Ukrainian man took chalk to my nether regions.
There is a certain rush you only get from buying a new suit.
You can mix the gitty-glee of "balls to the wall"* shopping spree, with the manliest pursuit of being surrounded by wool. Add in the elderly gentlemen that want nothing more than shove a tape measure up your bum, and you have manly ecstasy.
As I stood there, incased in wool, letting the former Eastern Block tailors work their magic of trimming away the fat, and disguising the fat, I realized why "brides" squee about their dresses. This thought made my spine quiver. When the head tailor was done re-arranging my balls, I asked if he had a cigar. Or maybe a Dos Equis.
Okay, so I have a wool addiction. I have come to terms with this. It's harmless. Well, besides the damage to my credit card.
*trade mark saying by that umber sexy Aussie, Kez.