From the Australian Newspaper:
'There was another story doing the rounds in Sydney some years ago which, one could only assume, was a furphy but which, delightfully for those who live off the grist in the gossip mill, turned out to be true.
It was divorce time for a well-heeled couple and things were unusually acrimonious. He was in London on business, she here in the family mansion from which he had not moved. The telephone ran hot with screaming, tantrums, threats and accusations. She slammed down the receiver after a particularly nasty shot at him.
Fuming, he waited an hour until he knew she'd be playing bridge. He called home and, as expected, reached the Spanish gardener.
"Manuel," he said, "this is what I want you to do. Go upstairs and take all my wife's clothes, put them in a big green garbage bag and take them to the charity bin on the corner where the church is." Manuel gave a surprised squawk. The husband repeated himself slowly, and then again. Manuel, shrugging, said OK.
The man arrived home three days later, somewhat nervous. That was a lot of Chanel down the drain. Phew, his wife was not home. Expecting some friends over for a game of tennis he went to his dressing-room to change. Couldn't fine his tennis shorts, couldn't find his tennis shirt, no tennis socks. What the hell?
He shouted for Manuel, who sidled upstairs. "Where's my tennis gear?" he yelled.
Manuel looked at him as one would a madman and shook his head sadly. "But, but, but," he protested, "you phoned me. You told me to go upstairs and take all your white clothes and put them in the bin. And that's what I did." And yes, the pride of his wardrobe, an all-white Giorgio Armani dinner suit was now being worn by a vagrant.
yechydda,