Booted out

I have got some new boots.

They are not exactly new. In fact I bought them some weeks ago, when we had more money, and when it became apparent that the boots I was wearing were leaking very badly indeed.

I had glued them a couple of times, because they were my favourite sheepskin boots, and I was reluctant to lose them, but to no avail. The leaks continued, and worse, I had worn them so much that the soles had become smooth, and once or twice I had slid to an embarrassing downfall on my excursions with the dogs.

I did not in the least feel entitled to purchase a new pair of boots, because in fact I had a pair already. Number One Daughter had bought a pair of fabulously expensive lightweight Army boots that she had decided did not quite fit comfortably.

This is of unimaginable importance when you are in the Army, because soldiers do not just do strolling about parade grounds in their boots, despite what it looks like when you see them turning up to troop the colours for the Queen.

In fact soldiers have to charge up and down mountains carrying unspeakably heavy packs. They bound over assault courses and are dispatched at a moment’s notice to charge about with rifles in foreign sandstorms and mud baths.

Under such circumstances one’s boots must be of unimpeachable comfort.

Hence we inherited the tight pair, first Oliver, and then, after he had worn them twice and his toes grown into such a squash against the ends that I was jolly glad we hadn’t had to splash out on buying him a pair, they became mine.

This was brilliant. My feet are smaller than Number One Daughter’s, and so they were not in the least tight. I greased them lovingly, and washed the laces, and added some sheepskin insoles for warmth, and they became a joy for my elderly bunion-riddled feet.

Under such circumstances the purchase of further footwear seemed like an utterly reckless extravagance.

The thing is that Army boots are the best thing possible to wear on one’s feet when you are walking up the fells with the dogs. They encase one’s ankles and protect one’s toes and do not slide around on wet rocks.

They are not quite the best thing to wear when you are trying to impress the world with one’s middle class elegance and impeccable dress sense.

Obviously we all know that I am a lost cause under those circumstances. Also I do not think that anybody, anywhere in the world, would care in the least what I look like, because there is only Mark, and he never, ever notices.

All the same, it is important not to turn up at one’s children’s expensive boarding school looking as though one is hopefully applying for the role of caretaker’s assistant. Wearing smart footwear, or at the very least, tidy footwear without too many holes, is important.

I suppose that this year it really doesn’t matter very much, because everything that is worth doing in the world at Christmas anywhere has been cancelled. There is no carol service in the Cathedral, no Festival of Nine Lessons at school, no Christmas market, no Christmas pantomime, and no hedonistic bash in the beautiful Midland.

I have been trying to think positive thoughts about this, and the one that eventually occurred to me was that if we are not spending all of our money on mulled wine and roasted hog slices on the Christmas markets, maybe we could afford some new boots.

Mark concurred entirely, which is important since he is the only person earning any money at the moment, and so I bought some.

I bought a new pair of glorious, warm, sheepskin boots, which arrived a couple of weeks ago.

They are a beautiful chestnut colour, and I loved them immediately.

I loved them so much that I instantly squirrelled them away in the wardrobe in order not to spoil them. It would be terrible to own such beautiful shoes and then for them to become covered in sawdust, or mud, or oil, or anything that Mark has anything to do with.

Eventually Mark remembered. He asked why they had not arrived, and I explained that they had.

He said that he was not going to spend a fortune on middle class footwear for it to sit in the wardrobe, and that they must be worn. He agreed about the mud and oil and sawdust, but pointed out that if I am going to Asda, or along the path in the Library Gardens, or to the post office or driving a taxi, my feet should be relatively safe from such perils.

Also he said that if they got dirty we would just clean them, and that they should be worn.

Today I wore them.

They are soft and warm and dry and wonderful.

I am very happy indeed.

I brushed the sawdust and mud off before I took the picture.