I thought I had a perfectly safe job, not likely to cause undue harm to my body or my clothing.

Apparently not.

On Thursday, I was typing away when I happened to cross my legs at my desk.

Rip.

Yup, my favourite jeans tore. Right across the inner thigh.

On Friday, I was about to leave to pick up my children from school, when I felt a draft. I looked down… right across the inner thigh of my second-favourite pair of jeans, there was a big tear! And not the cool kind of tear. Definitely the inappropriate-for-schoolyard variety of rip.

As the author of not one, but TWO books about the wonders of blue jeans, I’m feeling a little betrayed by my clothing. And when a pair of gold-mining jeans can last a hundred years, why can’t mine last 12 months? Now, I have to go shopping, which I especially dislike because who can understand all those numbers involved in buying jeans? I mean, 27, 29, 31… what do those mean? Why can’t they just say small, medium, and large?

It’s possible that if I could understand the numbers, I could find a pair of jeans better suited to my apparently unseemly (pardon the pun) thighs, and work again in relative safety.