The world and his wife were strolling along Worthing prom in the sunshine this afternoon. And so were we.
I wore my new gloves,
purchased yesterday from good old M& S for the princely sum of £7.50. I had to do battle with Mr B over their purchase. Not that Mr B isn’t the most generous of men – it’s just that he
takes issue with the fact that I lose so many pairs of gloves. Correction: I lose so many singular gloves, as in just one of a pair, rendering the wearing of the companion glove impossible.
It’s rather like the Mystery of the Disappearing Socks – except that socks, after all, do go through quite a journey on their way into oblivion, via washing machine and tumble dryer. It’s annoying, but not
surprising, if one or two from time to time make a break for freedom. Mr B says if it was only one or two then he might be able to overlook it, but on one particular count he found no fewer than 23 odd socks in his sock drawer. Where did they all go?
One of the many books I used to read to my Little Sister when we were both knee high to a grass-hopper was The Borrowers. If you haven’t read it, or seen the TV
series which aired some years back, it’s about a family of extremely small people who live under the floor-boards and create everything they need -from the beds they sleep in, to the table they eat at and the clothes they wear - from items they have
purloined from the human beings living above them. I would happily make a sock or two available for any family of Borrowers living under our floor-boards but, to be honest, if they have made off with twenty-three of Mr B's best, then I suspect they must
be selling them on the Black Sock Market.
I wouldn’t be too happy to know they were “borrowing” my gloves but, to be fair, I know the Borrowers
are not to blame. I always lose my gloves when I am out and about. I have lost count of the number of times I have been on some outing or other, only to discover, when I came to don scarf, hat and gloves to go home, that while there is a glove in one of my
coat pockets, the other is empty.
A shelf in the hall cupboard is a kind of Glove Museum, dedicated to the remaining gloves of the ones I have lost. Here is the
beautiful black velvet glove with the smart bow on the cuff, a present from the Middle of the Darling Daughters. Here is a pinky-brown knitted glove, part of a matching set bought for me by My Boy the Christmas before last. Here is one black leather driving
glove, a present from my sister, the best, most comfortable driving gloves I have ever owned. Here another smart leather glove, a gift from Mr B before he gave up buying me gloves on the grounds that I would never manage to keep a pair for longer
than a winter. I can’t throw the singletons away, even though I know in my heart of hearts that I will never ever find their pair, because they are all special and all given to me with love and a misguided expectation that I would take care of
I do have some beautiful gloves which are still a Twosome. Another gift from the Middle of the Darling Daughters, they are of the softest red leather, with
beautiful black leather trim at the cuffs and tiny black buttons. So beautiful are they that I only wear them for the most special of occasions – by which I mean those occasions when I know I will have to keep my gloves on for the entire time,
rendering the chance of losing one of them much less likely.
I kept my new gloves on during our afternoon walk, even though Mr B pointed out that I didn’t
really need them at all as it was beautifully warm in the sunshine. Mr B is under doctor’s orders to take a brisk walk every day. I think “brisk” is going a bit far to describe our progress this afternoon but we did have a most enjoyable
stroll, ending up in the Marine Gardens Cafe where we met up with some friends and heard all about their holiday in Tenerife. I think we probably spent more time over the coffee than the walk – but it’s the thought that counts.
I have purposely bought gloves for which I feel no particular affection. They are plain, black, serviceable, boring. I won’t care too terribly if (or when) I lose one
of them. Mr B says this isn’t the point and suggests that in future I should buy what used to be called, in less politically correct days, “idiot mittens”. Idiot mittens, for those too young to remember, are gloves strung together with
tape which passes through your coat and down each sleeve.
If I were a less polite person than I am, I’d tell him to put a sock in it...