dresser, a very conservative dresser.
It was years before he would wear anything other than a white shirt. Eventually it reached the point where he agreed, reluctantly, to wear a pale blue shirt. Over the years he has had other muted shirts of blue, grey or green. The faintest stripe (blue or grey) is now acceptable but only just. He still insists on grey melange trousers and one of two conservative sports jackets for winter.
His "going out" pullovers are plain. He does not like colour work or cables. They are extremely boring to knit.
Around home it is a different story. His workshop woollens are a riot of colour. They are made from leftovers. There is even a pink stripe in one. He does not care. He believes they can get as dirty as he likes. I do my best to drag them from him before they get too bad. I do not always succeed. He wears his checked flannelette shirts until they are thin enough to poke a finger through them - at which point I do insist on throwing them out and remove the buttons so he can no longer wear them. The trousers he wears are equally disgraceful. We buy them in the local charity shop - so far the choice there has been between "new" and "almost new" but about a tenth of the price they would be new from a shop. Again, he feels it does not matter how dirty these get or if he stains them with paint and glue.
But, we have a problem. He likes conservative underwear too. It is becoming increasingly hard to find. He is appalled by the idea of anything other than white underwear. The younger males in the clan appear to wear brightly coloured underwear. The shape and fit is different. It has been carefully explained by my sister that this is what men now wear. It is not, the Senior Cat says, what he wears. The other day I spent some time trying to find the sort of underwear he likes. There was none. One shop even said they no longer stock that type "because nobody wants it any more". I could have pointed out that someone did but I kept my mouth firmly closed. Next time I am in the city I will go into the more conservative men's outfitters and see what they have.
Yesterday the Senior Cat had to go to the doctor. He had to pass another branch of the same chain I had tried without success. He went in and was, I think, genuinely shocked by the underwear on display but there, under all the brightly coloured piles, was a broken packet of three white underpants. They were his style. They were his size. That is all they had. No, they will not stock them in the future.
He came home purring triumphantly nevertheless.