Monday, 4 November 2013

The sad tale of the fat lass...

the Fly boots and 
the throbbing thumb.

Picture the scene...
all is dust settlingly quiet in
Rapunzel Towers.

Ted is away for the day,
leaving me, his able assistant
to take our Saturday night's ill-gotten gains
to the Air Ambulance base.

Imagine if you can my spiff-chick, splendid
Smart car, stuffed to the parson's nose and 
beyond with coins of the realm.

In order to look the part of an honest upright
citizen I decide to dress up and don some
normal gear.  The all forgiving palazzo pants are 
thrown with a flourish onto the floor.
Proper linen trousers are the order of the day
according to my perusal of Berk's Pearage.
The ensemble is topped off with a lawn blouse,
jaunty red silk paisley scarf.  In the half light of early
morn, you could be forgiven for thinking me normal.

Bum in the air, I locate by means of apparel sat-nav,
my Fly boots cowering in the back of the cupboard.

'Your time has come...
let's hit the road running!'

I cry.

With stocking feet I dust
the aforementioned footwear, as I descend the storeys.
No time for boot black!

I'll just pop them on, then the job's a goodun.


I strained, I huffed, I puffed,
I even lowered the zip of my trousers
in order for a rent not to fill the air.
Linen fatigue...
 a well known event around these parts!

I did try to use my right hand...
the pain!

I honestly thought it would come loose and fall off. 

Fast forward to 4 p.m. and Ted arriving home 
to the sight of the latest
Damien Hirst art work...

'Severed Thumb on Parquet Floor
with Blood and Gore'
circa 2013.

It took me a full 15 minutes...

leg in air

leg over the arm of the sofa

to get the flaming things on.
I was so exhausted I had to get my breath back,
feet up sort of thing!

At this juncture, tired and crotchety, in need of a break,
I thought I'll pitch up
to the Virgin desk at Gatwick,
empty the pails of loot and say...

'Where will this lot get me?' 
as I tip the eleven overflowing buckets
onto their Late Booking counter.

Knowing my luck it'll get me to the
Maldives where...

'No News, No Shoes'

 is the order of the day...
And I won't be able to get the frigging boots off.



  1. Oh dear - the perils of having sturdy calves. I know them well. Stick with the biker boots!

    1. Nilly, for once it wasn't the sturdy calves... it was my arthritic right thumb: the pain and how absolutely blooming useless it is for just about most things. I've had the stout legs, man and boy for my whole life, so... I'm kind of used to them now.


  2. Replies
    1. Which one Jacqui... the legs or the thumb?


  3. Airport security would be interesting... Trying to take them off to prove you didn't have any hidden explosives. Like the bit about dusting your boots down with stockinged feet... Do it all the time... Or use the back of my trouser legs when I'm in a hurry!
    Julie x

    1. You and me both kid... my idea of spit and polish is a light dusting of Pledge and a gay yellow duster waved over them... Tinkerbell style. Because of my slack tendencies, man has taken it upon himself to send me out with boots that wouldn't look out of place changing the guard at Buck House. Am I complaining? Not a bit of it!


  4. Is there any treatment you can take for an arthritic thumb? it must be very painful, I know there's no treatment for tubby calves... (or my footballers knees).

    1. No treatment that I know of, apart from lying prone on a chaise with flute and Cheesey wotsits all within easy reach of my left hand. Thinking about it that's probably why I've acquired the legs that wouldn't look out of place on a grand piano.


  5. I am sorry but I did laugh out loud at this one Linda! Sorry about the painful thumb though! x

    1. Glad you did Jayne... don't look now... but that was my intention. Anything for a cheap laugh me, even if I tell it against myself, which drives Ted nuts!
      His metaphorical ones... naturally!