Bono

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A cat must embrace every one of her nine lives.

There’s no law against flannelette pajamas as far as I know. This particular pair was dark green plaid, however, and identical to the ones Dad wore through his later years.

Not only that, they were out of season. We were sweltering through a particularly hot summer. Winter weight nightwear was the last thing he needed.

“What do you think?” Philip said, swaggering into the bedroom with the nonchalance of a seasoned fashion model.

I adjusted my head on the pillow so I could finish the crossword without the assistance of a neck brace.

How could I tell my beloved husband that, without realizing it, he was mutating into my father?

It didn’t take Sherlock Holmes to work out what had happened. Philip had been wandering through a department store during one of his lunch breaks when some shop assistant sniffed him out as easy prey.

Blonde, 25, and with teeth that would have bankrupted her parents, she’d have beckoned him over to stroke the fabric. Helpless as a terrier in front of a plate of fillet steak, he would have trotted through the underwear displays to her counter. She would have beamed up at him and stroked last winter’s flannelette with her manicured talons. He would have been mesmerized as she pointed out the white piping edging on the collar and flattered him into believing it was retro. Honestly, straight men should be banned from shopping alone.

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