I discovered a problem this morning.
I came to dig out my smart shoes for our magnificent trip to the sunny south, and found, to my horror, that I could no longer squeeze them on to my feet.
This was not because my feet have become massively bigger in the last year, which is about how long it is since the last time I needed respectable foot attire. It is because of my sore toe and swollen ankle.
I know I have not said anything about these problems for some time. That is because I have been being brave and noble, not because they have gone away.
My ankle is not really swollen any more. It is possible to see, on close inspection, that it is fatter than the other, but you have got to look hard. It still does not bend properly but I have been working on this by doing all of my walks on the fells in bare feet. This makes my ankle wag about thoroughly and flexes every part of my foot. It has also made me finally resigned and sanguine about cow dung squidging between my toes, and surprise thistles.
The real problem is my toe. Anything that accidentally brushes against the end of it, which is still comically scarlet and inflated, makes me leap in the air and employ profane language.
It is not a good time to be a clumsy dog, I can tell you.
Anyway, I discovered this morning that my respectable middle class shoes could no longer be eased over my toe.
I considered this with a slight edge of woe.
I didn’t much like my respectable middle class shoes anyway. In the way of women’s shoes since time immemorial, they were designed for people who know they are probably going to be in so much pain at the end of the night that they will have to walk back from the nightclub barefoot, although I suppose at least there is unlikely to be cow dung.
All the same, they were the only respectable shoes I had. We had been together for many years and I was accustomed to them, like a woman with an abusive partner.
Whilst I was contemplating these difficulties, Mark returned from the garage with my taxi – which passed, I am pleased to announce, much to everybody’s great relief. I sent the paperwork to the council three times just to make sure. I had a rude letter from them last June telling me that my licence had been suspended because they had not bothered to check their Inbox where I had deposited it three weeks earlier.
I explained the problem, and we were struck by the inspired recollection that the up-market shoe shop in the village was in the middle of a closing down sale. I have never been in there because it sells expensive designer shoes, and I only have cheap mass-market feet, but there is a first time for everything, so we splashed over there under an umbrella that some customer had left in the taxi.
They did not have many shoes left, but I can tell you that those that there were were as middle-class as anybody could wish. They were so middle-class that I managed to squeeze them over my toe and stroll around the room without even the merest shadow of unspeakable agony.
The ladies whose shop it was recognised aspirational paupers and were sniffy, in a dignified superior sort of way, but we had brought Mark’s credit card and could sniff right back.
We bought some shoes.
I am the proud owner of some genuine middle class shoes. I can walk into Cambridge and stride positively on to the platform and give a speech without needing to suppress a single rude word on the way.
Did I mention I was giving a speech at a ceremony at Cambridge this weekend? Well, I am.
In other news, we think we are going to go in the camper van after all. Mark thinks it will probably get us there.
There are budgetary reasons for this.
We are going to set off tomorrow.
I apologise for the title.
