I don’t get out enough. ‘Tis true.
So it’s become second nature: when I leave the back door I put on the rubber clogs that serve as my summer gardening shoes.
Sunday morning there was a plant fair at RHS Rosemoor. We were half way up the 84 steps to the garage when I heard Mike chuckling. “Did you mean to wear those shoes?”
Yes, I had to go back. I could probably have got away with it for Rosemoor. Turning up at a plant fair straight from the garden.. maybe I’d have even earned a few nods of respect. In a “there goes a true gardening eccentric” sort of way.
But it was yesterday that the funniest thing happened.
We were due to go to the hairdressers. One of the downsides of living in the sticks is the distance from the nearest hairdresser-sized town. For convenience and to save on petrol we’ve recently got into the habit of arranging an appointment at the same time. Same salon, different stylist. It’s a similar set up for the optician, but that’s an eight hour round trip and a whole different story.
Mike was determined to make sure that this time I left the house appropriately shod. “Ah, just think. There you’ll be. Reclined at the basin with your feet stuck out, dirty gardening shoes on show for all to see.”
All I can say is, teasing me must have caused him to become distracted.
For halfway up the 84 steps.. “Oh B*gger!”
I looked round to see him running back down to the house. And what was he wearing on his feet?
Yep, you’ve guessed it.