Bootless rage


Silence yesterday not because I was bobbing about in some concealed slurry tank, my desperate cries unheard, but because I was staying with a friend and didn’t quite feel confident enough of my own charm to shout, oi, stop cooking my dinner and give me your wi fi password. But rest assured, gratifyingly for narrative purposes, it was an absolute pig of a day. It was always going to be the toughest: the greatest distance (21 miles), the nastiest roads (crossing the M4, A4, taking on the Kintbury station rat run) and the most tricky route finding. So I got horribly lost, just to ensure that a bad day got worse. I still don’t know what I did wrong but the compass got a tongue lashing, unfairly. It was gracious when i apologised and was kind enough to point out south without grudge. With an extra hour added to the day, it was almost dusk when I finally hit inkpen in dark clothes without high viz gear. This was what I’d feared, along with sore legs, getting the cold that’s been looming for days and bad weather. What I hadn’t reckoned on was Rufus. Rufus, Rufus, Rufus. You unmitigated pain in the tits. Rufus is a two-year-old Labrador who will spend the next two days crapping out the sponge lining of my right boot, which he abstracted from the utility room as we ate dinner and chewed to buggery. It took 20 minutes of scolding and bones to persuade the brute to relinquish the prize, during which time i left my mortified hosts and returned to the dining table to sip my wine and fantasize about turning their dog into slippers. Luckily for the dog’s life expectancy, they will get me home, with thick socks and careful lacing, but there you go: no point worrying about the future because it’s the thing that never occurred to you that will bite you in the balls. Now, who’d like some lovely black fur gloves?






This was wh.


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