One day in my late teens I found a pair of jeans that fitted me nicely. This was at the newly opened Merry Hill shopping centre in the Black Country. The jeans were an odd colour but I liked the cut of my jib in them. This was until I told a schoolfriend I’d bought some mustard-coloured jeans. “What kind of mustard?” he asked. “Not English, surely?”
I’m afraid they were. But I stuck with them, resolving to wash the colour issue away. Sadly, thanks to the ferocity of the laundering, soon after I’d got them from English mustard down to dijon, they fell apart, bringing the whole unhappy episode to an end.
