trousers unfree shall never be at peace

(celebrating the Easter Rising with the Heelers Diaries)

Wandered into Vivian Clarke's Menswear Shop in the South Kildare skang hamlet of Newbridge.
"Clarke," sez I, "if you give me a trousers today, I'll gladly pay you Monday."
"Alright," sez he warily.
"And give me a loan of twenty quid as well and I'll give you that back when I'm paying for the trousers."
"Okay," sez he still wary.
I go a rummaging in the trews.
"No, no, not those," he cries in some alarm, "they won't fit you."
"What size do you think I am?"
"You're bigger than those anyway."
"I'm a thirty one, I want to be a thirty one," I say all Seinfeld.
He produces a measuring tape and girds the Heelers bell.
"So what size am I?"
"You don't want to know."
"I do want to know. That's why I'm asking you."
"You're a thirty eight."
"Thirty eight inch leg?"
"Thirty eight inch waist."
"Noooooooo."
As per our usual arrangement, the no was like the aiiiiieeeeaaaaaaaaaiiiiiaaa soundtrack from The Good The Bad And The Ugly.
Nothing daunted I again reach for the same trousers on the rack.
He tries to interpose himself between me and ye trews.
My efforts to get a svelte pair are causing him such distress that I desist.
He hands me a pair of clown trousers.
"These will fit you," he says.
I nod and, as his attention wanders, grab a couple of 34's off the shelf.
"Split the difference," I explain heading to the changing room. "Thirty eight indeed. Are you sure you know how to use that measuring tape?"
I emerge in one of the 34's, grab a 20 spot, and head for the door.
"See you Monday," he calls after me.
"You will," sez I.
But I didn't say which Monday.