These are the kind of conversations I have with the Dearly Beloved:
I bought him six pairs of socks for £5 in Poundstretcher. I know, I'm hardly one of the world's big spenders but they seemed like a bargain to me. Was he grateful? Was he buggery.
He put on a pair this morning and moans.
DB: What size are these socks? They're too bloody small.
Me: They are 9-13 (he takes a size 9).
DB: Well, they're too effing small.
Me: They don't know you've got effing fat feet.
DB: Where were they made? Japan? All those people have tiny feet. What happens if they are making them for fat Americans? They'll never fit.
Me: Perhaps they have two separate production lines, one for America and one for the rest of the world.
DB: (Sorry, this isn't very PC, but he puts on an appalling Japanese accent). No, no, these socksa for Hingland, not for Amerikwa. Smalla, smalla!
Me: (Sorry, the accent was catching...but turned into something kind of Italian) Those Hinglish have small feet, except for dat fat-footed fool in Devon. Letsa hope he getsa his socks from Jacamo, da shop for BIG men.
He half smiles. Wiggles his toes around.
DB: I suppose they'll stretch.