Wrong clothes

I have heard it said that there is no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong clothes.

I think that today I must have been as mistakenly dressed as if I had turned up to a funeral disguised as Coco the Clown, because in my opinion, the weather this morning was utterly vile.

It was raining as I left the house, fat heavy raindrops, which slowly turned to a hail-filled sleet. The wind came in freezing blasts as we crossed the Rec, making my forehead feel as though I had been eating ice cream with too much enthusiasm. I even went the wrong way on the little paths through the woodland, because I could not see through the hail to work out where I was going.

By the time we reached the top of the fell it had begun to snow. I did not mind the snow quite so much, it lacked the stinging savagery of the sleet, but I do not think that I could have described any part of the excursion as my favourite. In fact it was horrible from beginning to end, and even the dogs stopped bounding about, and scurried close to my heels. It must be even worse to be a dog, because of course they do the whole thing barefoot.

Obviously I was not going to be appropriately dressed for this, since I have not visited any Arctic Supply Stores lately.

Mark rang from work later on to tell me that they had been trying to mend an aerial on a roof but been obliged to desist because of the gale force winds blowing icy hailstones in their faces and threatening to knock the ladder over. He thought the weather was dreadful as well, and he has definitely got the right clothes, including thermal underwear and a padded shirt, underneath a hurricane-proof boiler suit, over which he had a heavy duty raincoat, boots and hat.

I could not even undress when I got home, because of needing to bring in firewood and pop across the road to Sainsbury’s. I stood at the self-checkout in Sainsbury’s with water actually trickling down my forehead and off the end of my nose and on to the cauliflower.

I was so wet that people looked at me, and it was a wet day.

When I got home I undressed at the door, and when I came back downstairs to pick my clothes up they had formed a puddle.

It might be the wrong sort of coat. I found it in the back of the taxi once, and although it has been very handy I think that all the waterproofiness has been rinsed off it by now.

It took me ages to warm up after that. I had intended to plant some little seeds in potting compost in the conservatory, but I didn’t. My fingers were frozen and fat and clumsy, and even when they warmed up again they felt stiff and awkward, like trying to play the piano with a bunch of carrots.

Instead I went into the warm kitchen and soothed my soul by cooking a risotto with all the vegetables left over from the week’s entertaining.

This was a Good Thing to do. After a while the house was filled with the reassuring smell of garlic and tomatoes simmering in red wine and cream, and life was all right again.

I have put my boots to steam by the fire, and dumped my clothes in a sodden tangle into the washing machine. I could not even face reaching in to their icy depths to empty the pockets, which will come back to haunt me later if I do not do something about it, because they are full of dog poo bags and Roger Poopy’s very muddy ball.

I have attached a picture of me. I was not even nearly home when I took it, and became considerably wetter after that.

If it were to have an Inspirational Caption it would probably be: Put Your Phone Away You Clown, They Cost Money When They Get Wet.