501, by Graham Attenborough

It was a dark and stormy night, in the autumn of 1974. I was sat on the windowsill in my cold bedroom listening to David Bowie on the record player. I was bored. Above the rain-filled wind I heard my dad cheerfully whistling as he opened the shed door to put away his bicycle. He'd been working overtime again but whatever time he got home, it was always too early for me. I sighed. I heard my mum greet him as he came in through the back door. Their murmuring voices annoyed me. Suddenly I stiffened, the kitchen door had opened and my dad shouted up the dark stairs.

"Graham! Come down here, I've got something for you". Suspicious but intrigued, I jumped down from the window and began to wonder if this particular dark and stormy night might turn out alright and that for once my dad was not going to make it worse. I began to entertain the possibility that my recent campaign to convince him that he should buy me a pair of 501s had worked. To give him his due, he had listened and had even nodded in apparent agreement when I'd told him how Levi 501s were worth the extra expense because of the superior quality of the denim and that they were double stitched, by hand.

"Originally, they were made for cowboys" I had told him, "real cowboys, you know, in the Wild West". He had seemed impressed, nodded his head sagely and said:

"They sound good. Let me look into it and we'll see".

After making sure I'd switched off my bedroom light (there was nothing that angered him more than lights being left on in empty rooms), I clattered down the stairs two at a time.

The kitchen was warm. I quickly shut the door, sealing in the heat. It smelt of paraffin and over-boiled cabbage. My dad was standing in the middle of the room. His grubby work clothes seemed to steam slightly.

"Now then" he said, "I got Ted to drive me into town at dinner time and I've got you a present. Don't worry, I got your measurements off your mum". He pulled a folded plastic bag room his knapsack and thrust it at me. It was green and looked familiar. I looked at my mum but she had found something to peel at the sink and turned her back to me.

"Thanks" I said, my heart sinking as I pulled a pair of jeans from the bag. They were wrong, all wrong. For a start they weren't the right colour, a light shade of blue and not the dark, inky blue of 501s. They were soft to the touch not stiff and unforgiving like they ought to have been. I looked at the label and saw the word: Littlewoods.

"Got them in Littlewoods" said my dad, "just as good as those Levis but half the price. Go and try them on then". I could feel the sense of shame welling up to engulf me and just as I thought things couldn't get any worse. They did.

"In fact" he said, "I liked them so much I bought myself a pair".

It was a dark and stormy night in the autumn of 1974. I was fifteen and my life was ruined.