“That’s not clothes, Jeff.”
“Of course it’s clothes. I’m not naked now, am I? Then it must be clothes. And it’s warmer, rather tingly actually. Not too sure about that.”
Jeff chucked the butter knife into the sink. It clattered through the heap of fifteen empty mustard jars already piled up there and rested at the bottom amidst the thin layer of yellow scum.
Jeff stood in the middle of the kitchen. A grin was spread across his face. Fifteen jars of mustard were spread across his chest, back and arms, half an inch thick all over, with a little extra about the cuffs and collar. From across a football pitch, on a foggy night, through someone else’s glasses, it might have passed for a jumper.
“See, clothes!”
“Not clothes, Jeff, never clothes.”