Das Robus

Three days ago, as we prepared to take “the Catherine,” as my increasingly Teutonic wife likes to call her, to the hospital, she sent Timmy and me out into town to buy her a bathrobe. It was a rainy afternoon, and Timmy wore his rather shapeless raincoat and I carried an umbrella and as the two of us went from lingerie section to lingerie section in search of the perfect robe, we realized rounding the corner and passing through the brassiere sections that with our spattered clothes and steamy spectacles we looked like a couple of aging perverts. Especially so when Timmy stood aa few yards away from me, held a pink bathrobe up in front of him, swirled the hem slightly, and silently asked if I thought it was suitable, whereupon I vigorously shook my head. But it turned out to be quite suitable, and after some mysteriously Swiss transaction at Globus involving a line of credit, we toted it home to Catherine.