Denis Lehane: Booted and suited for the occasion
You see, my old pair had me in a state of utter despair.
A hole had appeared earlier in the year, a large hole, out of which my big toe had a nasty habit of appearing.
But in spite of such hardship I had suffered on, for the days weren’t too wet, and my big toe could put up with the occasional downpour.
More importantly, I didn’t have the spondulicks to splash out on a new pair.
“Good God, woman,” I declared holding aloft the shiny new wellingtons, “where did you get them?”
“Never you mind where I got them.” says she, “try them on and see that they fit.”
So I did, giving them a right good test drive galloping around the kitchen table for a spell, before heading up the stairs and down again. I even flung myself onto the bed on one occasion.
“These wellingtons fit me like a glove,” I roared.
“Woman,” says I as I galloped back to her, “you have come up trumps yet again.”
Anyhow, flinging my old boots aside, I announced there and then that Macroom mart on Saturday would be the perfect location to begin wearing my new wellingtons.
With a weanling show and sale taking place, and rumours that the Minister for Agriculture might be present, could there be a better spot in which to dazzle all with my fancy new footwear?
Well, Saturday morning came, and it came fast.
I woke late, and had to shove on my wellington boots double quick before the action kicked off in Macroom.
A short time later I found myself in Macroom mart, shaking the hand of none other than the Minister for Agriculture himself. “Minster,” says I, “welcome to Macroom”.
Anyhow, the next thing, whatever way I looked down, in an effort to admire my boots, instead of seeing them dazzle, didn’t I to spot my old toe, and it peering up like the Loch Ness Monster.
“In the name of God, you hoor from hell!” I roared at my big toe, and I shamed like you wouldn’t believe.
In the rush to make the mart, hadn’t I tossed on my old pair of wellingtons by mistake, and there I was in such distinguished company, and I almost without a leg to stand on.
Flushed with embarrassment, reddened with shame, purple with rage, I made some excuse about needing to “strain the old spuds” and departed the scene.
But the damage was done, for my big toe stuck out like a sore thumb.
What would the minister think of us farmers now?
I cried as I hurried home. He would think we were a lost cause entirely, with our toes sticking out of our boots. The shame of it was almost too much to bear.
But then as I neared home, I calmed down, for I saw the light. After seeing my big toe, would the Minister for Agriculture not think that us farmers are in dire need of a mighty hand-out?
Would he not feel compelled to do something, seeing that we were on the last legs?
Our Basic Payment could well now be released early, on the strength of my big toe.
At the end of the day, I proudly concluded that my big toe, instead of being an embarrassment, could well provide the kick start that Irish farming so badly needs.
