A Boxer Short

It's fair to say that my underwear have taken one hell of a hiding over the past 6 months. In addition to the relentless natural seismic abrasive forces at play on a daily basis, my pants have had to endure the harsh treatment dished out to them through traditional Indian washing practices. 30 degrees and a spin cycle have been a distant memory.

The story of the 'Delhi Sextet' reads like a tale from 'Nam. Half of them were on their last legs before I tucked them into the case. The first ones to go, however, were the 'Roxers', by far the best in condition and my favourite of all the boxer shorts because of the personal yet powerful statement 'I [Heart Symbol] Rock' on the waistband. Rather than the image of a tiger's head or the Superman symbol, I [Heart Symbol] Rock was not a false promise: it was a projection of my own musical leanings and philosophy. Besides, 3.99 from Primark and you can't go wrong. But, cruel as the world can be, they went MIA within the first month or so leaving me with the rag-tag quintet. A striped George pair were the next to buy it, as an extra leghole bore its way through the material. Various others then ripped and tore in numerous places and by the time I reached HK, I decided that only the loosest pair of my patched-up boxers would be worth keeping. The valuable lessons I learnt were:

a) there's no point in patching up boxer shorts if the material is thinning in multiple spots.

b) never, under any circumstance, use the waistband of an old pair of boxers to patch the inside of the gusset. Perineal chafing is a painful inevitability!

Now, this turn of affairs left me in need of some new underwear, which meant I had to endure a stream of adverts of male models in their skimpies as I ventured, in vain, for boxer shorts. The worst of these ads was back in India while I was still repairing them. It was Hauz Khas market, I believe, where I found a large image of two 'firemen' in full gear, trousers around their ankles and big smiles on their faces. How can you trust a fireman who has brought his helmet (no pun intended) and his hose (again…), but couldn't muster the mental strength to put on a belt? They didn't look cool; they looked simple. I'm not buying pants from simple Firemen.

Thankfully HK didn't leave me with such burn marks on my retina; however trying to find boxers was difficult. All I found were briefs. Boxers were limited and certainly not at the right price - $5 a pair, $12 for 3 pairs. "What's going on?" as Marvin once said when in a similar pickle. I was surviving on about three pairs of boxers which equates to some dire straits. There's no way I could give them a quick hand wash - like Rocky's joints, they couldn't take the pounding - and flipping them inside out only buys you a day. What was I to do?

I persevered, confident that the markets of HK could offer me a better deal. My faith was rewarded. Just off a fish and veggie market (not the best omen I grant you) on the mid-levels I spied a heap of underwear with a '$10 each' sign above it. I rummaged around and managed to find a couple of 'fancy pants' for the weekend, a sensible grey pair for weekdays and a red pair that will help increase my fancy dress repertoire to more than just The Crow.

Hallelujah. I am saved.

Tony is currently sitting somewhere in the Philippines with his little computer screen.