Then I Met A Man With No Feet

It’s 9.30pm and I have just woken up from my booze-induced stupor. And it’s Sunday!  Dear me. How hedonistic. Two glasses of wine at lunchtime and I could barely string a sentence together. I was obliged to crawl blearily out of the car and lurch upstairs to sleep it off. Hubby, as usual, was both amused and slack-jawed in disbelief at my total inability to process the good stuff.

We have been to Derbyshire today for the Christening of my cousin’s little boy. The smashing little fella is a few months older than Harry and was impeccably behaved throughout. Harry, on the other hand, threw a screaming paddywhack in the packed church, right in the middle of the very important water-chucking bit, so I carted him unceremoniously outside, cheeks a-glow with shame.

Whilst perambulating amongst the gravestones, one in particular caught my eye. Now, I am not the type of person to mock grief. Losing your son is tragic, even after 172 years. However, gravestone fashions have moved on since 1836, and this one was so bloody lugubrious that I actually found it vaguely funny, and pointed it out in passing to all my relatives. Who all obediently peered at it, whilst transparently concluding that actually, I was distinctly odder than they had thought. Oh, well.

The verse at the bottom reads:

A pale consumption gave the fatal blow

The stroke was certain, but th (sic) effect was slow

With lingering pain, death saw him sore oppress’d

Pitied his sighs and kindly gave him rest.

Phew. Heavy.

And whilst we’re all miserable, I must share my shoe agony with you. Three days of intensive, miserable shopping for a brown and pink outfit just so I could wear my pretty brown and pink shoes.

I dragged them out of the shoe heap storage area yesterday, to find an ankle strap missing. My distress was palpable! Even Hubby had a poke about looking for the missing strip of leather, but it has vanished into that lurking fourth dimension that contains all the odd socks, used biros, and that special valuable edition of Barnaby Rudge I borrowed in 2002.

I returned to town with Hubby yesterday in an attempt to start my outfit plan from scratch, based on my identical yet inferior black shoes. Predictably, after an hour and a half of fruitless searching for something elegant, inexpensive and large, I began to get uber-anxious and teary and was duly taken home, empty-handed, apart from the very-tightly-clutched hubby paw. I ended up in much-worn but comfy black linen trousers and a slightly NHS-ey pink linen top. But I managed to avoid all cameras, all day, so… RESULT!

On a more upbeat note, Harry’s first visit to a pub went well; he spent most of the party playing happily under the table, soaking up family adoration and dispensing carefully-calculated doses of charm. There are far worse places to spend an afternoon than relaxing on a pub floor…

3 Responses

  1. Yes, I’d quite like to spend and afternoon relaxing on a pub floor. Preferably after a few refreshing beverages.

    Pregnancy really crimps my style sometimes.


  2. what a lovely gravestone. The engraving is nice and the poem is a great touch. I’m going to start working on my poem for my gravestone, thanks for the idea.

    Harry is so cute. As are those shoes. Sad times losing the strap.

  3. I’m always fascinated by gravestones.

    If you are ever in Malmesbury, look for the gravestone of the lady who was eaten by a tiger in 1703, which just goes to show you that English Market Towns are full of unexpected dangers and have been for centuries. I’m surprised you risk going shopping in one!


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