The woman on the end of the phone this morning was pleasant enough but then she said four words that sent a tremor of fear through me. ‘Bring some hiking boots!’
‘Hiking boots?’ I gasped. You see my darlings the Fag Hag has gone and done something rather silly. She has agreed to head off this weekend for a lovely three-day ‘well-being’ break at a plush country house hotel. But I think I’ve done a bit of a Private Benjamin.
In my book you see, ‘well-being’ means sleeping off last night’s three course meal till midday on beds with chintz eiderdowns. It means legs up in front of the roaring fire thumbing a Jackie Collins whilst a hot 22-year-old regional waiter with charming acne hands you a Baileys or three. It does not mean downward dogs or any kind of goddam dog at 7am…
It does not mean green, blue or sodding purple tea. It does not mean no champers. And it does not feature hiking boots. I mean would you put your feet in those Fatima Whitbread contraptions?
‘I’m afraid the best I can offer is some 90s fashion Timberlands I wore in the All Saints days,’ I joked to the lady on the phone. She sounded worried. ‘Oh. OK. And um remember waterproofs too!’.
Waterproofs?! I don’t even know what they are. Aren’t they things cockle pickers wear? The only weather protector I like to be seen is a full-length cashmere with faux fur trim from Barneys. Frankly I’ll be amazed if I get out of this thing alive – they say well-being break? I say Tenko.