Diddle Diddle Dumpling my son John
Went to bed with his trousers on
One shoe off and one shoe on
Diddle Diddle Dumpling my son John
Which, thinking about what I want to say is actually completely irrelevant. But hey, it's typed already, and I am not seeing all that effort go to waste.
Anyway. There we are with all our bedroom packed into bags, and said bags distributed about the house - spare room, understairs cupboard, attic, Kit's room - and the list goes on. And I have to get ready for Jeremy's company Christmas Do. 'Formal', it says on the invitation. 'Formal'. When last did two syllables strike such icicle terror into my heart? 'Formal'?!? I haven't done 'Formal' in - ooh, about eight years. 'Formal'? I haven't got 'Formal'! And even if I had 'Formal' I wouldn't be able to find it, becasue it's an a bag in the attic or Kit's room or under the stairs or in the spare room or - and the taxi has just arrived anyway, so these black velvet trousers held together by some sartorially criminal string, under some far-too-ethnic dark grey linen jackety-thing, are going to be topped (topped? surely not) by the only pair of not-my-every-day-shoes I can find, which are brown.
Jupiter Optimusque Maximus, not even Jeremy was going to let that one go. Taxi in the driveway, J in his tuxedo, and he starts tearing the place apart for the bag with my shoes in, a fruitless task as I am only too happy to repeat to him at three second intervals. In the end, I 'find' the pair of bronze and gold strappy peep-toe wedge sandals I wore to the wedding in South Africa, which I think are completely out of the question, and they are voted infinitely more suitable than my brown penny loafers.
Remind me - did they ever find the genes responsible for shoe management? Because I've lost mine, and am posting a reward for their safe return.
That, or my husband has more in the way of shoe gene than me. Gah.
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