The one thing I’d expected from rural life but had done zero to address (pressure of time, prior to moving), was the question of mud. Surprise, surprise, we find ourselves living on a small island, surrounded by a sea of brown squelchy stuff containing a smattering of cow pats and other assorted droppings. And as hard as I try to protect them, the old loafers just aren’t cutting it. Mrs G. finds it highly comical, watching me tiptoe around the yard like a poor man’s Rudolf Nureyev.
Determined to find suitable footwear, I set off this morning in search of a local store that sells country-type clothing. Two hours later, I’m in a plush looking establishment surrounded by sufficient weaponry to equip a small company of SAS troupers for a mission behind enemy lines. Wellington boots, I announce, rubber things. Dunlop make them - or did, last time I purchased a pair. This way, Sir, smiles the charming lady, pointing to a wall full of boots of every conceivable shape and colour. Now I’m confused. Show me a boot and I’ll take it. Dazzle me with 30 and I’m reduced to a gibbering idiot.
To cut a long story short I settled for the first pair that I tried, dutifully following the lady back to the till and taking out a £20 note in anticipation of the damage. I suspected something was amiss by the look on her face, although it didn’t match the look on mine when she told me they were £105. A hundred quid for a pair of Wellies! The world’s gone mad. I’m still sitting in the kitchen six hours later, staring at them. I just can’t bring myself to wear the boots outside, they’re the smartest things I own.