Kinky boots...

Today, my size sevens haven't touched the ground.  

The day started in the best possible way with a cup of tea with my dear friend Mrs P.  I had managed to throw on my usual weekday attire of jeans and sweater before heading out to the car to drive up to the cafe.  Just behind my car was a portable bbq which the husband had left on the drive - this despite several warnings from yours truly as to the need to move it before I drove over it.  It has been gathering rainwater and loose leaves since we returned from Scotland, and as I was a tad early for Mrs P, I decided to quickly shift it into the garage so I didn't have to look at it a moment longer.  

Hoisting it up into my arms, several litres of dirty water and rotting vegetation spewed out over my previously clean jeans.  Muttering under my breath, I dumped it in the middle of the very narrow garage walkway to achieve maximum annoyance from the husband.  I did think about removing the lightbulb in there so there was a chance that he might actually trip over it, but then remembered I need the lawn mowing this weekend, so reconsidered.  It's all about priorities.

In contrast to my 'what on earth have you been doing' clothes, Mrs P turned up looking her usual glamorous self.  This was doubly impressive as she had also had a trying morning involving several builders, a Rottweiler, a muddy bog and a driver who apparently had never found out where second gear was.  

But we put the world to rights for a lovely couple of hours, and ten minutes was spent on discussing how to disguise a pull in her lovely woolly tights.  'You could just wear them back to front', I suggested.  'At least you won't see it when you look down.  Or invest in a pair of thigh length boots?'

At my age, the only thing I want round my thighs is a knee blanket; my days of thigh high leather have long passed.  Actually, when I think about it, I don't think they ever arrived, but that's the trouble with having larger legs.  If I had worn them, they would probably have looked like a couple of rolls of lino propped up in the 'end of roll' section in the carpet shop.  

Mind you, I could have done with a pair of thigh length boots this afternoon while I was putting my garden to bed (posh phrase for cutting everything back to an inch above ground level).  While I wasn't looking, my roses have developed killer thorns and I came back into the house this afternoon looking like I'd had a run in with Edward Scissorhands.

How can anything so beautiful be so violent, I wonder?

Something the husband will ask himself when he trips over that bloody bbq...