A Pair of Trousers

Observed at a wake, some years ago:

An impromptu Red Hat Society meeting has convened round the cheese platter. They're not so much eating cheese as punctuating with it. The ringleader, a long-nosed harridan with mail-order dentures, spears a hunk of Gouda:

"Oh! And the Bottomleys' girl--did you see her?"

"You mean, at the funeral?" A lesser crone (squat nose, genuine teeth) makes little circles with a square of Havarti.

"Of course, at the funeral." The Wicked Witch of the West nips the cheese off her toothpick, and spears another morsel. "Her and that young man of hers. Wearing him like a sweater, she was."

Cheese and imprecations fill the air. "Dreadful!"

"The cheek of it!"

"Can you imagine?"

A nearby goodwife eyes the cheese plate in a contemplative sort of way. She isn't part of the gossips' convention. She's been orbiting for a minute or so, possibly hoping for a snack. "Well," she interjects, "it could've been worse." Grey heads swivel. All eyes are instantly upon her. A lesser hag might shrivel under the pressure, but this one holds firm. Her cloak of serenity (or is it senility?) is impermeable.

"Worse? How, worse?"

"How could it possibly be worse?"

"You must not've had a good look."

The goodwife helps herself to a lump of cheddar. She chews, swallows, and licks her lips. Then, she smiles sweetly, and delivers the punchline: "She could've been wearing him like a pair of trousers."

Zing!