Article by Juliet Young
I’m feeling more than just shirty. I’m feeling decidedly irritated and maybe even a little cheesed off, as one online dictionary offered me as a quaint definition of this very old, very British adjective.
Shirts. My shirts. Hubby’s, which I very kindly iron every day, because I’m so damned nice and too damned rushed to do more than one at a time, don’t really bother me. They’re big, they’re cotton, they’re his.
My shirts are another matter. Should I in fact actually be calling them blouses? Some of them do have cute little flowers, paisley pattern swirls, or small white polka dots printed upon them. On the polka-dotted one there are even a couple of stray...