Slippers and Slip Ups

men in slippers

JF spent some of his Christmas money on a motion-controlled wildlife camera.  Just attach it to a tree or in a hedge, point it at fox, vole or whatever height and see what you get. 

Week four of the camera in action and the latent excitement has dimmed slightly.  We now have the finest collection of images of his slippered feet – on approach and in retreat – any woman could hope for.  In fairness, we do, also have some top notch pix of the fox we feed scraps to, a water vole and this week we’re hoping for a glimpse of our Kingfisher. 

Whilst on slippers however, I’m reminded that one wintry morning was defined by a particularly slippery incident.  JF was rushing about preparing to leave for work, I’d just got out of the shower, clad only in dressing gown and, yes, slippers.  I’d just started drying my hair when I noticed one of the horses was limping in the paddock.  I rushed out, in my relatively sturdy-soled slippers, grabbed a headcollar, caught the horse and was bringing it in when JF slid open the window of his beloved ancient Land Rover, engine running, to give the customary kiss goodbye.

I put the horse in the stable as he drove off and went to the front door, which I’d left on the snip, for a quick change before zipping out to look at the horse’s foot.  It was shut and, worse, locked.  Hmm.

So nipped round the back, locked.

I had a meeting in Manchester at 10am, it was 8.45am.  I could still see the Land Rover driving up our farm track.  I had no phone, no clothes and no hope of catching JF, but took to my heels anyway.

Despite running, and shouting, the old truck continued to trundle, giving brief hope as it stopped for JF to open the gate, about a third of a mile away, before setting off again.  The thought of walking through the village in just a dressing gown was not to be contemplated.  I was so mad by now I thought I’d explode.

Then I saw it, a JCB off in the field to one side.  I legged it, clutching the edges of my dressing gown and all of my unfettered bosom as I trotted, hopping between potholes of muddy water.

Local farm worker (phew), had both a phone and my husband’s number in it.  I am not proud of what I yelled, but it certainly got results.  Farm worker, who had been smirking throughout commented.  ‘You’re the second naked woman I’ve had to rescue this week.  The other lady has Alzheimer’s.’  His eyebrow cocked the question – ‘and you?’

 

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