Donald, where's yer troosers

Donald MacDonald

I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I pulled the key from the minibus' ignition.

It was nine thirty in the morning and I had to drop my parents at my uncle's house in Chester at ten fifteen, so that they could travel with the rest of his family to his funeral. As the service area was about five minutes from the house, this left time for me to change from my jeans and sweatshirt into the dark suit I'd hung in the back of the minibus before going to bed early the night before, in preparation for leaving Ayr at four in the morning.

My dad's cousin and I had travelled via Motherwell, where we picked up my parents, as well as several other members of my family.

As the others went for breakfast, I sauntered to the gents, suit carrier over my shoulder, proud of myself for getting us there on time, and for having the foresight to have kept my suit pressed for the sad occasion.

I locked the cubicle door, hung up the carrier, and piled my jeans and sweatshirt on the closed lid of the toilet. Unzipping the carrier, I reached inside the jacket.

'You cannot be serious!' almost Victor Meldrew, but for the addition of a couple of words I never heard Victor say. Incredulously, I reached inside again.

Still no trousers!

What now? I couldn't attend my uncle's funeral in pale blue jeans with a suit jacket and black tie!

I threw the jeans back on and ran to find the others sitting down to plates of bacon and eggs. 'I'll be back soon - I need to go and buy trousers' I panted, and hurried to the minibus. Pride replaced by panic, my heart was racing as I hauled the bus onto a roundabout.

I don't know the area, but I reasoned that if I picked any exit I would eventually find a place selling black trousers.

My mobile rang. Having managed to stop laughing, my son had come up with an idea; look for an Asda or a Tesco. I thanked him and dropped the phone back into my pocket.

In my state of panic it seemed a lot further, but after three or four miles I turned a corner and felt my spirits lift; to my left was a Tesco sign. I threw the minibus into the car park and flew into the store. I had run up and down every aisle before the realisation dawned. 'Tesco Express'. It only sells food!

I bolted from the shop and almost flattened a guy walking towards me. Brilliant! He was wearing a suit! He must know where to find trousers!

'Where can I buy black trousers?' I almost screamed. There was a pause...He was taking too long, and I was thinking of hitting him.

'I'm not from here' My fist began to clench.

'I do know that there's an outlet village with a hundred shops about fifteen miles that way. You're bound to get trousers there'

I listened to his detailed directions and ran back to the bus. I rallied it out of the car park and raced back the way I'd come. I passed the services where my family was breakfasting and smashed every speed limit on the way to the outlet village.

The guy's directions were good. I screeched to a halt in the outlet village car park and sprinted towards the door of the shop displaying the sign 'Next'. I know they sell trousers!

I squashed my nose on the locked door of the shop. There was someone in the shop next door. This time I banged my head. The 'someone' was hoovering. I spun around and saw what I had missed as I sped into the car park. It was empty. The whole place; every shop 'opened at eleven o'clock' the same time that the funeral was due to start!

Time was running out. Dad would be panicking if I didn't get back to the service station soon. (I was way ahead of him!)

As I revved the bus out of the car park I noticed a Sainsbury's.

'Do they sell clothes?'

'I know they sell carrots and stuff'

'To hell with it 'it's my last chance - I'm going in!'

I struggled to park the minibus. At least the place was open!

More running...

My smart white shirt was now sweaty and crushed. My hair was all over the place. My racing heart could compete in Formula One.

Thankfully, as I ran in, I saw the men's clothing section.

The trouser rail only had my waist size in 'short' or 'long'. I'm regular.

On the basis that you can't lengthen 'short', but you can at least pull up 'long', I chose the latter, paid my seven pounds, raced back to the services, and changed into my new ridiculously long trousers (which nearly matched my jacket).

It started there.

As I herded the family back to the bus someone began to sing a distinctly un-funereal version of 'Donald, where's yer troosers?'

Somehow, we made it. I dropped my parents off on time and we went to the church. The ceremony was beautiful, and I thought I'd got away with my fashion faux pas. However, standing at the graveside, I knew that I was standing on my trouser legs. I said nothing, and as we entered the hotel for lunch I had my hands in my pockets, pulling the trousers as high as I could.

We settled at a table and I was convinced that only those on our minibus knew of my predicament. I didn't know that every one of them had spread the word.

I found out though, when my cousin Calum approached me, and with a completely straight face said 'Donald, can you give me the name of your tailor?'

That set the tone for the rest of the afternoon.

Uncle Ian would have approved.