A social occasion.....almost

Yesterday was my day for manning our local cat charity's shop in our village so I thought it a good opportunity to ditch the housecoat and wellies and put on heels and a decent set of clothes and scrub myself up a bit. You never know who might walk in. We're not short of celebs in our neck of the woods... Windsor Davies, Roger Whittaker.. jealous, eh?.. so it wouldn't do to be caught naked from the neck up just in case a passing paparazzi happened to want to catch a quick shot.

I do actually have experience of paparazzi, it may surprise you to know. Back in the real world, before kids and chickens and rural life in France, when my shoulders pads were for power dressing rather than pain relief from 'axe swingers shoulder', CH and I were invited to the Irish Derby as guests of Guinness. As CH was, at the time, working on Ballykissangel, the stars of which, Dervla Kirwan and Stephen Tomkinson, had just got engaged and Ballykissangelmania was at its height, their appearance caused something of a media scrum. Word had also leaked out that day, that Dervla's character was going to be killed off. I think our chauffeur's words were "I hord they's gonna fecking fry ya" (she was killed by a faulty fuse box - quite possible that I'll go the same way too!)

I spent the whole day being told to "move out the way, love", "can you just stand aside", "we only want Dervla and Stephen in the shot" until in the end I was forced to point out a) I was with child so would they be a little more respectful and b) we were the guests not them. They were only there because we'd asked them. Despite it all, we had a lovely day and they were a really charming couple.

On a brief aside, I just Googled Ballykissangel to double check that it was a faulty fuse box. Have you any idea how many fan sites there are? There's even a heartfelt Tribute to Assumpta Fitzgerald. You can leave you own tribute (mine would read something along the lines of 'You do realise she's not real, don't you?) but sadlythe Tribute Page wouldn't load.

Anyway, I've digressed for long enough. So, I carefully chose my wardrobe, not too smart, not too casual, and put on my heels ready to face my public. I'm a recent returnee to heels, having not found them useful in rural France where I left more of them stuck in the mud than on my feet. Unfortunately, I've now got fallen arches which my mother blames entirely on 3 years of welly wearing, and she's encouraged me to buy something with 'just a little heel'. This is a woman who never let a flattie on her feet until after her 70th birthday, when advancing age and gin and tonics took a toll on her balance. (That's a gross misrepresentation of my dear old Ma, of course!).

I picked up my trusty Mulberry bag and headed for the door, on the way checking my reflection and thinking "Hmm,not bad. Not good, but not bad either". I didn't notice one of the cats sitting in the doorway, and unused as I am to my heels, half tripped/half jumped over him in the style of a three-legged steeplechaser taking Bechers in the Grand National and dropped my Mulberry bag in an inconveniently placed pile of chicken poo.

For the second time in two days I was forced to reflect on whether I really am cut out for rural life.