Well, that was the plan.
To be fair it was only myself and the dawg who seemed keen on a brisk countryside family walk yesterday - but being a dog she's not very hot with a camera, so I dragged the rest of the clan out too. We negotiated the monstrous, filthy muddy puddle at the start of the footpath into the woods - the dog drawn to foul water like a magnet. Ditto Ruby.
Both dog and Ruby were told in no uncertain terms, that wading through that particular puddle was not an option.
I'm all for jumping up and down in muddy puddles. Just not muddy puddles the size of Lake Windermere, and especially not 2 minutes into a family walk.
Just as I thought we were safely past the black, viscous puddle, Ruby slipped my hand, turned on her heel and pegged it like Usain Bolt. I was left standing there, screaming fishwife style "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO...".
She took one final look over her shoulder, threw her head back in defiant and triumphant cackle...and flew, spectacularly, face down, full on belly flop into the mire.
I was furious beyond belief. Daddy ran over and peeled her out of the mud, and there she stood, like a bog monster, covered from head to toe, coughing and spluttering mud.
On another day, I may have found this funny. Yesterday I did not. I was raging.
She had ruined her brand new dress; obliterated a pair of tights; poor Charlie (the 2 day old Steiff teddy that Daddy had brought back from Germany as a present) was also in a very sorry state; her school coat looked like she'd been on an army assault course; Daddy hastily pulled his shirt out from his belt to wipe her face and promptly tore it seam from seam, and finally the dog was not best pleased at having her walk prematurely cut short.
We trudged home (well, they trudged, I stormed), stripped her off, put her in the bath with me muttering something about 'when is that girl ever going to listen and do as she's told'.
And that was the end of that.
Instead, I shall have to show you my coat on it's hanger.
A Windsmoor bouclé (is that the right word?) beauty. I love the shape of it, the buttons, the collar, the little turned back cuffs... everything. And it only cost £8.
It's now smelling much fresher than when I bought it in the charity shop too. I took it straight to the dry cleaners because it smelt particularly fusty-musty. They informed me that dry cleaning does not get rid of odours.
Seriously, I can't be the only one who is convinced that dry cleaners simply hang your garment on a clothes hanger, pop a plastic wrapper on it and charge you a tenner.
So the coat was £8, dry cleaning cost £8.50 and I used half a bottle of Fabreze followed by two days airing outside on the washing line. Still, £16.50 for a vintage Windsmoor is not bad methinks. Let's hope it has better luck on it's next outing.
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