The Wrong Boots

Standing at my desk with my slippers on the wrong feet, my heart in lesson planning (I love planning lessons) but feeling the pull to a whole heap of admin that isn’t going to do itself, I remembered some scribbled notes on my pc regarding the Wrong Boots. So, like every well-intentioned, not so great at executing planner does, I decided I wouldn’t do either of the above, and write a long overdue Substack post instead.

It’s last autumn. I need a quick hearing appointment, for micro suction. For those who require the same treatment every few months and find themselves floundering when the appointment from hospital no longer comes through, I share your pain. Although I’m lucky, I can find the money to pay the good people at the well-known high street – cheap and cheerful – opticians which has seen the potential to take up this service, if I have to.

The first available slot is 7 November and this is the middle of October. A few more shops checked and nothing doing, I shut a few pages down to enact the appropriate Plan B in these situations: put the kettle on.

But wait!

What is that I see? A lone, glowing box at the original well-known high street establishment, in the middle of October where all slots previously had been dark. You’re kidding me? Cancellation? Today! It’s an appointment at 2.30pm!  (It can’t be, the hubbie cries, because that’s when you’re off to the dentist. I know, I know. He says this every single time there’s a Two and a Thirty involved and I admit, nonetheless, the more he says it, the more it makes me chortle).

I have 30 minutes. I also have work to do. I resent the time and money my ears are costing me at the moment but we won’t go into that because I’m only only writing positive news on the subject of hearing, here.

A glance at the weather app – oh, hello boots weather – I grab them and a carefree, mañana attitude to my work, and sprint-shuffle to the train station buying my ticket on my phone as I run.

Ouch.

I look down. I have the wrong boots on. I’d grabbed the first pair. They’re nice enough but I’m five foot-nearly-two with my slippers on, and these make me five foot-nearly-five. In the evenings. They’re not for daytime sprint-shuffling. They also look ridiculous with my ankle grazer jeans which now don’t quite meet the laced up tops. But I have a choice. Catch the train, undoubtedly meeting every person in town I haven’t seen for the past ten years, or turn back and miss my appointment.

So there I am, feeling very conspicuous, and a good chunk taller. But I’ve made it and I’m standing at the desk waiting for the receptionist to come and check me in, musing how nice it would be to be serene and just walk to places like normal people, when the receptionist returns.

She is very nice but slightly puzzled to see me standing there. For my appointment at 2.30 I explain. She looks at me blankly, asks for my name again. I watch the dawning spread across her face.

I’m sorry, she says, I’m afraid your appointment is next Thursday, not this.

Oh.

See you next week then, I say, sheepishly, red faced as I turn to leave.

Can I just say, she calls behind me.

I love your boots.