Something is a bit broken, I remember a time when on a Friday evening I'd be in the local pub*. Now I'm perusing wellington boots and it's not even a weird rubber sex fetish, it's practicality. I have beer I suppose.
I'm only doing this on protest, I pulled my current boots in the car earlier and my wife issued a simple OH NO! It's true they issued an olfactory high crime, the sort of mephitic punch to the nose that was only partly solved by flinging the offending items out of the car window. That left my feet, which are not so easy to dispose of, fortunately. Fair put us off our post-walk Bakewell tarts. Death by Camembert.
I'd also like to thank whoever splattered our car with mud. I know such car parks are famed for the pseudo-canine walking antics, but I think someone may have fucked a swamp next to our car.
Anyway, it's the capitalist consumer nightmare, confusing array of variety. I say bring back communism, where you have the choice of rubber boot number 5 and rubber boot number 8 and the latter isn't available. Is it even reasonable to buy French wellies (notably and defiantly only ever called rubber boots)? And £200 for a wellies, do they come with a shotgun and membership of the royal family? If not, they should.
On the plus side, despite not getting any younger, I still like nothing better than jumping into muddy puddles.
*admittedly, this task would have become fraught, my boss's new boss, it turns out, frequents the same little micropub...