While I acknowledged that all those things might benefit me, I pointed out that they would also make me miserable. Mindful of the looming milestone, she had been proposing a series of prescriptions for me, including not drinking four glasses of wine every day, doing pilates and resuming learning French (which I had given up in protest against reflexive verbs). I was, at the time, approaching 60, and my wife’s shirt critique felt particularly pertinent in that context. ![]() But my wife explained that death was a syndrome particularly likely to affect white shirts, as she took me to my wardrobe and showed me that all but one of my four white shirts had irreversibly lost their snowy glow. A year or so ago, I was about to go out to a drinks party with my wife, when she said: “You do realise that shirt’s dead, don’t you?” I was wearing a clean, ironed number, I pointed out.
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