Wellingtons: From soaking toes to hot new boots

Since the change in the weather, my big toe has been going through hell.
Wellingtons: From soaking toes to hot new boots

It’s been exposed to the cold, wet and the mud.

A hole in my wellington boot being the cause of my distress.

It was back in April that my wellington originally sprung the leak, but owing to favourable weather conditions, I was able to bluff away through the summer and into the autumn, with my big toe none the wiser.

But now, with torrential rain, the hole by the big toe had been unable to cope, and was letting in more water than the Titanic.

The time had come to rectify the problem.

Being a clever fellow, when my last pair of wellingtons sprung a leak, I had the good sense to throw away only the boot with the leak and keep the other, in the hope that one day it might come in handy.

Alas, this time, wasn’t it again the right wellington that had the leak.

So I had two boots for my left leg and none for my right.

Anyhow, I tried them on and, while they fitted me fine, it was a disaster entirely.

You see, they tended to direct me west constantly.

And I knew if I was to wear them long term, I would eventually end up in Castletownbere.

There was nothing for it but to splash out on a new pair.

Last Saturday morning, after suffering a week and a half of wet conditions underfoot and indeed surrounding foot, I took the plunge, and purchased new wellingtons.

My new boots were smashers altogether.

Not the most expensive, but they came in a fancy box with instructions included.

On Sunday evening, I took them for their maiden voyage.

Through various ravines, inclines and rough ground, we trotted. My new wellingtons performed magnificently.

Boots made for the rain. My big toe had never been so happy.

It might have been a cold, hostile Sunday evening here in Kilmichael, but as far as my big toe was concerned, it was like being in the Bahamas with Rihanna.

It was comfort beyond belief for my poor old big toe.

Anyhow, I got back home, and after discarding my overcoat, I wandered into the house.

My wellingtons being so comfortable, I kept them on, hoping I wouldn’t get caught by my missus.

And throwing myself in an armchair by the roaring fire, I took hold of my wellington instruction booklet.

From this, I would learn more about my wellingtons’ anti-slip properties, amongst other things.

Anyhow, with the height of information and the heat from the fire, didn’t I doze off to sleep, only to be woken later by my missus, and she roaring about the smell of burning rubber in the house.

And the woman was right, for when I woke, I too got the whiff of rubber.

On Sunday night, our house smelt like the rally circuit of Monte Carlo.

“Tis your boots,” says she, screaming, “they’re on fire!”

And I declare to heaven when I looked at them, while they weren’t exactly on fire, smoke was most definitely coming from them.

I was almost like Michael Flatley himself with my feet of flames.

And I’m telling you, Flatley, if you are reading this today, you never moved faster than I did on Sunday night, as I leaped from the house to dance in the puddles of water out in the yard.

My new wellingtons might well be the only lads for the rain and water, but they are clearly damn all good when the heat is really on.

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