Let's not talk about where I've been or what I've been doing ...

... it's depressing and dull and makes me sound all whingey and crappity.
Let us instead, speak of Mr Brown's latest sartorial adventure. Swimming trunks. He needed some and I was going to make that happen.
So, David Jones, after work, having tempted him inside with promises of "just dashing through, it's a short cut" to dinner.
(I'm most cunning and clever you see.)
"O," I said, "lookie, swimming shorts, you need some, don't you, for Queensland?"
I showed him these. He saw the label above them (Paul Smith, tres, tres expensive, stupidly so. But still, if I were a boy I'd totally wear them) and said no, no, no.
Then I showed him these (lobsters. with CLAWS). He said yes, then looked at the price tag (Ted Baker, London, you can imagine I'm sure), and said no, no, no.
Sigh, my selections rejected I started to grab shorts wildly, waving them in his face.
"These?"
"No."
"These?"
"No."
"These?" Faded red ones, like his Newport pants. Pink, in other words.
A quick check of the, sensible, price tag (from here, a nice Australian company that makes comfortable underpants for boys, among other things).
"Yes."
The man has pants to swim in, the world is a safer place.