Jeans

Once upon a time (in first year) I bought a pair of jeans. They were, truly, the most wonderful pair of jeans in the world, they had a funky embroidered sun/flames thing on the back pocket and they made my legs fab. I first wore them on the night when, for the first time, I fully felt that I was over my git of an ex and I think the combination of the fab legs and the glow of independence made me feel rather confident and sexy. In typical first-year fashion, then, I proceeded to flirt with an awful lot of people the first few occasions on which I wore these jeans. These wonderful jeans, therefore, became known as my Flirting Jeans.

About a year later, I met some other bloke with whom I somehow ended up climbing over a wall that had anti-climb paint sprayed on it. My jeans thus met an untimely end. I went out to buy a replacement pair and, because I was in such a good mood, I ended up buying the first pair I tried on that fitted, regardless of whether or not I actually liked them. They had naff bits of designer distressed crap on them. They became known as my Serious Relationship Jeans.

They too have now worn through in a place I don't particularly want a hole and, since I already have several pairs of 'gardening jeans', there seemed little point patching them, so I sent them to the textile bank and I now have a new pair of jeans.

I wonder what they shall be called.