Stilettos for Wellies

Never mind sore feet from partying all night long in stilettos, that was my old life in London. I live in the countryside now, a rural idyll in the depths of Sussex, or is it Kent? It’s hard to be sure where the border is with all the greenery and unmarked roads around, not to mention the sat nav woman’s voice that runs out of steam about three miles from the edge of my village, petering into a continuous loop of, ‘turn around where possible. TURN AROUND WHERE POSSIBLE.’ Yep, I heard you! On and on she goes, clearly unaware that the Landy is in the middle of a flaming field doing desperate mud skiddy wheel spins while an angry bull gives it the eye. Yep, that happened to me. But there’s a board down the lane saying ‘Welcome to ….’  The rest is splattered with what looks like a giant cow turd, so it’s anyone’s guess which county we’re actually in.

Anyway, I’ve put my back out pulling off my new wellies. I knew I should have gone for the sensible, wide-calf ones instead of the black patent festival ones with the cute wedge heel, but how was I to know that cheap rubber wellies shrink-wrap to the shape of your sweaty legs when you’ve walked through several muddy fields for any length of time? The injury happened in my new boot room. Not really, but it sounds good and from what I gather having ear-wigged the locals chatting in the village store, it seems that everyone in the countryside has a boot room. Except me. Oh no, I have a muddy old mat that slip slides all over the red quarry tiled floor behind the back door of my little cottage.

So there I was doing the Houdini dance, hopping around trying to balance on my left foot while I grappled with the wedge heel of the boot on my right foot, when the pesky mat went AWOL and I face planted the floor. And if that wasn’t hideous enough, Puppy Oscar, my black Labrador (a must have if one is to maximise the full country living experience), who isn’t even a puppy anymore so there’s no excuse for his bad behaviour, but the name seems to have stuck, came bouncing over and gave my tangled, windswept hair from having been outside in the whiplash-inducing countryside wind, a big fly-by slobber coated lick. Only moments earlier he had been tonguing his own backside!

But, luckily, I managed not to sob right there on my hall floor. Instead, I’ve taken to warming my poor, feeling-sorry-for-itself back beside the cosy Aga … just like a proper Country Girl, while I ponder how much it would cost to knock though to the old coal shed to create a boot room with one of those wonderful cast iron scraper bars in, on which to effortlessly slip ones wellies off.