One minute you’re wearing a crisply ironed, oxford button down and then a girl comes along, all snugly and perfumed, and creases it by rubbing against you. There’s no point in remonstrating with them for they do it on purpose, to say to other girls: “Look, this one’s mine, I’ve creased his shirt already.”
Although I had always had trouble with girls, I was thirty before I worked out why. I was on holiday in Thailand; during the monsoon. You’d think it would be the ideal opportunity to take refuge in the hotel with a bottle of champagne and some massage oil but my companion was not an enthusiast. We ended up watching Hollywood movies. I went kayaking in the rain to burn off some energy. That was when I realised that I didn’t want my shirt creasing; not by that girl, at least.