The Boots

I got up to find a present sitting at the foot of my bed. It was a brand new pair of hiking boots.

My heart sank as Gabby leapt into the bedroom wearing a pair of shorts complete with braces and with a flugelhorn strapped to a backpack.

‘Holiday!’ she screamed.

I shuddered.

‘I take it you’ve been plotting?’ I remarked, unimpressed and not a little worried by the sight of Romanian brass.

She beamed like the lights of an oncoming truck.

‘I got tickets for five days in… wait for it…’

I waited. I wish I hadn’t, but I waited.

‘The Lake District!’

I hate the Lake District. It’s full of lakes. I don’t understand people’s attraction to water. And not only water but water surrounded by rocks it take half a day to climb and then, when you finally puff your way to the top of them, you only find a view of more lakes and more rocks.

Gabby wasn't listening.

'We have good time, Chippy,' she said as she tested the fingering on the old horn. 'I play tunes while we walk. It will be like old times back in Romania. We have fun. We live free and we live off land. You like to eat badger?'

The upshot of this is that I’ll be away early tomorrow morning for five days in Cumbria. Gabby’s told me I’m not to take my laptop but I have other plans. If you happen to spot a glum thong wearing man trailing behind a loud Romanian who is blowing the hokey cokey through a battered flugelhorn as she climbs the fells, then be sure to come over and introduce yourself. If you could arrange some kind of fake-kidnapping, have me whisked to a safe-house full of internet connections, clean thongs, and ground coffee, I’ll make you rich.

I’ll be in touch.