Thanks Mum!

I was torn between the weight of responsibility and a growing urge to laugh. As I squelched around in the ankle-deep mud, happy as Larry in my (mum’s) wellies, aforementioned Mum was doing her best not to get swallowed by the gloop wearing a pair of practically Victorian trainers.

Let me explain. Back home in Norfolk for a parental visit, I announced: “Let’s go for a walk!”
As long as there’s a pub involved, the folks are generally keen, and as it was a sparkler of a winter’s day, the mood was good as we wrapped up against the chill.
However, as I was on a visit with a titchy backpack full of nothing useful at all, my footwear options were limited. So I did what daughters have been doing for centuries – pinching the best bits of their mother’s wardrobes for their own use. Today, the best bits by far were the wellies. Unfortunately this left poor old Mum with her shabby ‘walking boots’. Well, less walking boots than 15-year-old trainers, the sort that relent at the first drop of rain to become less shoes than sponges.

 

 

So it was that we hit Norfolk’s marshes. And as I purposefully sought out the puddles, wallowed in the mud and cracked ice sheets with my trusty rubber companions, poor old Mum tried her best to skirt the edges of the goo, and clung to Dad for dear life.
In my defence, I couldn’t fit into her other shoes – she’s a five, I’m a seven – whereas wellies are more capacious beasts, and were perfectly roomy despite being designed for a smaller foot. But I did twinge guiltily as Mum nearly came a cropper on a sloppy slurry of cow dung.
It was a beautiful walk though: late winter afternoon, dipping light, windmills and lapwings – the sort of scene that makes you want to shout “told you so!” very loudly at those who dismiss the county as tediously flat.
Plus the pub at the walk’s end had an open fire and served wine in large glasses – everyone was happy. Actually, it had been a bit of an adventure, hoisting each other over slippery stiles and working out the best route around an especially squelchy quagmire – like one of these fancy team-building days, just without the hefty price tag.
Indeed, inappropriate footwear aside, there was a glow to Mum’s cheeks and a smile on her lips as she vowed to consign her shoddy shoes to the scrapheap when we got home. Or perhaps that was just the wine… Whatever, at least I know what to buy her next Christmas.