Home Counties Fashion

What the best dressed Mr M is wearing this Autumn

There’s been excitement in the house today as Mr M realised a long-held ambition – to have a kilt. Those of you who follow me on FB will realise that the topic has caused slight ‘disagreement’ twixt self, spouse (and my Scottish cousins) as to whether as a Sassenach, he’s actually entitled to wear the thing; especially as it’s me who has the Scottish connection, through my late mother’s family. His assertion that if it’s ok for the Duke of Edinburgh to sport one, it’s good enough for him has carried little weight up until now…However, he’s worn me down. After all, anybody who possesses the staying power to tramp through mud, heather, mist, parties of disgustingly smug German and Dutch hikers and hairy Highland cattle with me last Spring is entitled to some compensation. So here we are. What the best-dressed Octoberfest drinker is modelling this autumn: Mr M in his ‘Scottish heritage,’ (our family tartan ‘Gunn,’ motto-‘Either peace or War!’ is far too expensive to wear for a mere p***-up!)

And now, to slip into something more comfortable…

This one is for Cal and Japes.

Many moons ago, you’ll remember I blogged over in Greenpatches about a momenteous decision that the beloved and I needed to make. Would we or wouldn’t we? To green or not to green? It was a big step to take, one that would have repercussions not only on our own self-image but on the delicate psyches of our nearest and dearest. We thought about it. In my case – prayed about it. We sat at the feet of image consultant gurus. (Well, ok, for that read consulted the great god Google). And waited…in trust. And, our patience was rewarded. The GGG moved mightily in power, and well..might, offering us a way through our dilemma. To cut both a long story short and putting all my mixed metaphors into the proverbial nutshell: it came to pass that there was Greenbelt, and a big, green, foldy tent thingy; umpteen layers of bedding, a spare groundsheet, a kelly kettle with accompanying kindling, sundry layers of woolly thermal underlayers, three year’s worth of carefully amassed hiking gear, a fetching pair of floral ankle wellies, a stinking pair of walking boots, a socking great 60 litre backpack; the lot topped with a dainty garnish of chintzy bunting, oh, and myself. And nothing to carry it in.

Then it came to me. I hied myself to the GGA (no prizes for guessing this one) and behold! There it was; verily an answer to prayer: a ‘Festival Trolley.’

It did the job brilliantly. Mr M being A New Man is delighted and can be regularly seen with it and the dog in the shops and round the market. (Though not round the market with the trolley and the kilt). He’s convinced, converted, a Born Again Trolleyperson. Our neighbour remains to be convinced, however. Never mind, we’re biding our time…

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