The Cottage Smallholder

When my elderly aunt died, I inherited her fur lined Wellington boots. They were too big for me but I thought that they might come in handy one day. They were knocking about in the barn for a year or so before I realised that they might suit John Coe, the slim light framed man who helps me in the garden. They were a perfect fit. He was delighted.

The cottage was a weekend retreat for me and The Penultimate Paramour at that time. A tall, large framed man with size 12 feet. He would lie in bed as I enjoyed the crack of dawn coffee and chat with John. We would then venture out into the cold garden whilst The Paramour snored above.

The Paramour had become obsessed with my stuff.
“You’ve just got too much. I’m always tripping over it.”
So I was pleased to report, when I brought up his breakfast tray, that John had left that morning wearing my aunt’s fur lined Wellingtons. The effect was startling, he pushed the tray aside and lunged for the window. John’s car was just turning out of the drive.

He settled back against the pillows,
“Why on earth would he want them?”
“Because they fit him, of course. And it’s cold working outside in the winter. He’s going to wear them on site in his day job.” John hadn’t retired and was still working in the building trade.
I thought The Paramour would be pleased that I’d got rid of some stuff and just couldn’t understand his roar of laughter and astonished response.
“What did he look like in them?”
“Pretty good, actually.”

The next Saturday The Paramour asked to be woken on John’s arrival. He didn’t want to join us,
“I don’t want to embarrass him. I’ll just watch from the window.”
John arrived wearing the boots. Bemused, I brought up a cup of coffee at the appointed hour.
“Be sure to alert me when he is working near the house. He is wearing them?”
“Yes. He says they’re perfect as they are so warm.”

When John started the mower I gave The Paramour the nod. Beaming he crept towards the little window that overlooks the garden. After a few seconds he turned round, disappointed.
“He must have taken them off.”
“No. He’s wearing them.”
“But you said you’d given him your aunt’s fur lined wedding clothes!”

The moral of this true story is don’t mumble.