“Wellies”

‘Wellies’ – LWG prompt for 06-08-2019: I should have worn my wellies.

“I should have looked after my wellies – then I would have been able to wear them today. Sadly, knowing that I should have worn my wellies, does not make up for the fact that I did not ‘actually’ wear them.”

said Pam Ayres – for it was she, my impersonation was of.

‘If it wassnae for ma wellies

where would I be…?’ (Billy Connolly)

Who asked a good question, for which there are, it seems, no good, or interesting, answers.

When should I have worn them?

I must apologise for my questions, they are quite adamant that they have to be asked and, sometimes, even to me, seem unusually brusque in their manner – it is often the way with questions.

Answers seem to be less forthcoming, more reserved, upon this subject – being outnumbered, as they are.

So, what more is there to say?

“Lots!” I hear you cry.

Please, stop crying. Dry your wyes, cross your teas, and dot your… jays? Wasn’t there a time when jays had the privilege of being dotted? Anyway, are we ready to continue?

But, Ha! Rhetorical questions are also a nightmare, aren’t they? – for, by the time that you realise that one had been asked, it is already too late and you have fallen into the trap of trying to answer it.

‘My Wellingtons’ for sixty seconds without repetition, deviation, or hesitation. Starting now!

My Wellingtons weren’t named after the famous Arthur Wellesley, Duke of Wellington, but after one of his most famous victories, the Battle of Wellington, New Zealand in 1827 – a skirmish largely forgotten by modern day historians who tend to extricate the minutiae of details from several other sundry altercations that occurred in the early 19th century or before, possibly after. My wellingtons are called Leftie and Rightie or Laurel-Wreath and kiss-me-Hardy, or some such similar epithets that I am unusually lax in remembering – being of unsound mind, you laugh, please – my Wellingtons fit me like a glove – which, in itself, is a problem, as I am cursed by having no thumbs upon my feet – to be brutally honest – I have no toes upon my hands either – I’m not from Norfolk, I’ll have you know – nor am I Anne Boleyn – which should be staggeringly obvious to anybody who has even the smallest smattering of knowledge when it comes to Tudor history. Henry the Seventh’s son, the eighth, was largely careless when it came to looking after his wives, they all seemed to end up shorter or locked up in a secluded sanctuary or monastery somewhere, only to die of old age, the plague, or boredom.

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