Booty full

We are hoping for a busy night.

I imagine that by the time I have finished writing this I will know if it has been busy or not. It is still early at this point in the diary, not yet seven, and the rest will be written in between customers, quite possibly until I get fed up of it and scrawl a hasty end outside the nightclub some time around about two in the morning, and turn, with a sigh of relief, to my book.

I am not terribly keen on my current book. It is a novel written by somebody who thinks that falling in love with some chap at work is important and interesting enough to furnish material for a whole story. I am sure that she would be right if I was still fourteen, but forty years later I think that this sounds quite dull. Now I am elderly I judge the quality of my loving relationship by having my coffee made just the way I like it and whether or not he remembers to pick up our prescriptions when he is passing the chemist.

We had a Loving Relationship moment today.

My boots have worn out. They have not worn out completely, obviously, because I am still walking around in them and they do not let in water or have obvious holes in the toes. I have had many pairs of footwear which have been far, far worse.

These are my very favourite boots in the world ever. They are warm, so warm that I would wear them all day around the house if I could. They are lined with sheepskin and they keep the chill away from my toes.

The problem is that you can tell at a glance that they have been somebody’s favourite boots for some considerable time.

They have got a thousand scars from innumerable adventures, and the soles have worn down so far that they are slippery when it rains. They are not my best smart boots any more. Indeed, the best and kindest description I could think of for them would be along the lines of ‘scruffy old boots’.

I have been looking at them with some concern for a while now. It will be Gordonstoun carol service in a few weeks.

Gordonstoun is quite relaxed in its dress code compared to the other schools that the children have attended, possibly due to the Scottish weather which means that all dress codes include woolly vests and thick socks. Indeed, we have found ourselves thinking, with some relief: oh, it’s only Gordonstoun, it won’t matter. Nevertheless its functions still require more sartorial effort than the taxi rank, and I do not wish to turn up wearing Scruffy Old Boots.

I told Mark about this and he nodded sagely and suggested I bought some more. He stuck to this even when he realised how much some more would cost, although he went a little pale and had to grit his teeth.

I thought that this was a loving gesture but knew really that we could not afford it, and so the boots were not purchased. Instead I tried, a bit belatedly, to look after mine so that they would at least not get any worse before the carol service.

This week I saw a pair in an eBay auction.

They were just like mine, only brand new, and in a beautiful blue colour. They were even in my size, and they were half of the cost of new ones.

Half the cost was still more money than we had got, so I just looked longingly and sighed a little.

Then today we were having a cup of tea in the office and a little alert flashed up on the computer to tell me that the auction for them would finish in just a few hours.

Mark wanted to know what it was about, and I explained.

He looked at the pictures of them and thought they looked splendid. Then he decided we should bid on them, which I didn’t because of being broke. Instead I switched it off and tried not to think about it.

Two hours later Mark appeared back at the computer.

He had set an alarm for the time when the boots auction would finish.

He said that he had been at work all week and would spend his money on what he liked.

He bought the boots.

I felt terribly guilty and grateful all at once. Also I took the opportunity to show him a dress that I liked whilst he was in front of the computer.

He laughed a lot and said we would get it next week when we have paid off the overdraft from the boots.

I can wear the old boots for work and save the new ones for the times when I have to try and look as though we are middle class.

It is nice to be loved even when you are old and dull.

Have another picture of Roger Poopy. I have not taken one of the boots.

He thinks he might have found the burrow belonging to the deer he has been chasing.