There are checks and there are checks ...

I like a man in a checked shirt. A long-sleeved checked shirt, that is. There are however, checks and there are checks. There are big checks, little checks, gingham checks, multi-coloured and mono-coloured checks, bold checks and skinny checks. There are a lot of different checks. I like checks, generally.

John20 was promising. He lived on one of those foxy winelands golf estates. With a spa. Nice. He would be far enough away from me as not to become a nuisance but close enough to see often. This was a good scenario. I looked forward to our sundowner at my favourite hotel.

John20 arrived wearing a checked shirt. Buttoned up to the second last from the top button; a bit high, squashes the neck. The checks were dull; light brown, khaki-ish green, pale blue. The pattern of checks was boring: not gingham nor bold, but skinny lines and less skinny lines spaced at a variety of distances from one another. It reminded me of the checked shirts the chaps at the municipality wear. Non-crease, easy iron, poly-cotton. And John20's checked shirt had short sleeves.

I have no aversion to members of the civil service; both my grandfathers were civil servants. But I have noticed that they tend to wear checked short-sleeved shirts and the colours are usually of the insipid varietal. They should rather all wear a uniform, like the police force do. More attractive.

I can't recall ever asking John20 what he did. Perhaps he works for the municipality ...