I don't ever want to meet the person who doesn't love them.
Laura, bless her, reckons I have too many. So does Mum, now I think of it, as does Dad, and probably Jason, too.
They're wrong.
Dead wrong.
My shirts are my children. (Well, almost…)
No matter how old, stained, moth-eaten, I can't throw them out.
And why should I? After all, they have been very good to me.
The photo above is a slice-and-dice of almost forty of the tees that mean just that little bit more than the rest of the threads that have graced my kinda girlie shoulders in recent times.
They aren't necessarily my All-Time All-Stars … there may not be my grandfather's PMG work shirt I wear most Friday's to the paper; there's not the first band shirt my brother Jason presented to me when he came back from his first rock concert -- a sweaty black Screaming Jets number; or that Star Wars shirt I wore the first time I was kissed, or that blue The Streets shirt I wore that first date with Laura on the shores of One Tree Point, Tuross, NSW, the place where Laura and I had our first date, and I knew then that it'd be my last ever, first kiss.
(Actually – I've bent the rules a bit to include that tee …)
The shirts you'll meet in the next few weeks are my daily drivers.
Billboards to my soul. Comic books, cartoons, music and TV shows.
And triggers to awesome memories.
Laura.
Family.
Friends.
Batemans Bay.
Big Day Outs.
The finer of life moments.
Life is good, and so is cotton.
B--
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