I have more pairs of trousers from India than one could shake a stick at, if one still shook sticks at things, which one probably doesn’t unless one was born in the early 50’s… But anyway, if I WERE in the habit of shaking sticks at things, I would have way too many two legged material things to fire said vibrations at.
Too. Many. Trousers.
A backpack-full actually! And then a carry-on bag full, and now a closet full of lovely, unique, woollen, silken, cotton pants holding out for the next stick-wielding 60-something to come and challenge their mighty quantity. There are almost too many to count.
When I moved into my room upon my return from India and faced the mammoth task of ‘unpacking the pack’, aka discovering a ‘whole new world’ at the bottom of my travel bag which I then had to figure out how to clean, I found myself emptying the wardrobe of it’s old inhabitants to make way for the masses of new, improved tenants from my beloved Hindustan.
I had beach trousers, warm trousers, thermal trousers, ali-baba trousers, tailor-made trousers, bla bla bla… And every pant had a name, a place of purchase, and a story attached. Every pant was, and is, completely indispensable.
Of course. Yes, I can only wear so many pairs of trousers in a week, and yes those two pairs of virtually identical churidar are not a practical way to fill up my wardrobe, but honestly I love them all and wouldn’t dream of shaking anything from a tree anywhere near them. Even if I had a stick worth wobbling!
Which would be hard to find because most sticks don’t wobble; they tend to waft lazily in wind or crack and plummet onto pavements, but not one stick I have ever met has been proficient at ‘shaking’. Sticks just don’t shake.
I’ve never asked one, no, but believe you me they don’t. They don’t.
Besides! Even if I did have a suitably wobbly branch at my disposal it would take a decidedly disproportionate effort to set everything up in a suitably wobble-able manner. It’d take hours, days! I would probably have to transfer my entire collection of lower garments to the patio before I could begin to flap at it effectively.
I’d have to lump my entire wardrobe out of my bedroom, down the corridor, through the kitchen and out of the back door to finally dump them, and go back again. I’d have to avoid parents who might object to me stick wafting on the veranda, and I’d have to time my pant-lugging perfectly.
Good god! I’d have to locate a stick, I’d have to practise my shaking technique, and I’d probably need a helping hand to make the large bonfire-like mountain of material I would need slap bang in the centre of my back veranda; a pants-pile to rival Guy Forks’. In short, it’d be ‘a bloody treck mate!’ As they say.
And apart from all that, having piled my pant-pile and located my branch, how does one shake a stick anyway?
Like I said, it’s a matter of technique and must be practised. Perfected. Take inspiration from other stick-weilders, or if you know none then make one up and be doubly inspired by a) your creation and b) your creativeness. I personally tend to imagine a stout old woman with fluffy pink slippers and obnoxiously huge glasses dripping off her nose.
She stands squat with her shoulders hunched and her jaw jutting aggressively, brandishes a hefty bough and grimaces in fierce antagonism through her dentures. If she spoke her words would be a very ruffled cockney gibber, and would sound something like ‘oooooooooohhhh-bloody-‘ell-if-I-catch’ya-ya-dead-sonny!’
So, in conclusion, if I were a widely proportioned elderly lady with fabulous footwear and a knack for making english sound like vomit…
If I could be bothered to brave the various obstacles of corridor, disproving parent and wondering sibling… If, in fact, I WANTED to brandish a large lump of wood at my many pairs of beautiful leg wear in the first place, I would do so!!! I’m a free woman (insert feminist garble)
But the thing is, I don’t. I’m not.
So maybe I’ll just wear them instead.