It is hard to imagine now but, five decades ago, I was young and enthusiastic. One winter’s day I was hurrying across campus. Rather than take a 30 metre detour to a gateway, I decided to pursue a more direct path. That involved slipping under a post-and-single-rail fence. Why not, I thought, I’ll make it in one seamless move.
As I crouched down, I did notice a certain tightness. Without pause for further thought, I pushed through. Rrrrrip. When I stood up, I realised why trousers and pants are plural. For there I was: a long pant on one leg, a trouser on the other and the great rift valley in between. Thank goodness for the belt.
I sidled my way along to the nearby bookshop where the ever generous and wonderful manager came to the rescue. While she ducked home to stitch things back together, I looked after her shop - with my nether regions ensconced in a very fashionable cardigan.
I was a slow learner. A few weeks later, different trousers, I was racing to a meeting. Same post and rail. Same push through. Same result. Another chilling experience.
This time I could hardly go back to the bookshop. Somehow I made it back to my office - disrobed and grabbed the stapler. I did make it to that meeting, though rather late. Some people there wondered why I was so prickly.
Push through. Let it rip. It’s not a good plan. I know that now. There are limits to how far some things can be stretched.
