Mud Sucks

I started New Years Day this year as I meant to go on. A breakfast of near lethal amounts of crystal meth and ketamine before having a shower and a shit. Just kidding. I don’t poo, as any fool knows. I am A WOMAN. My excretions are fragrant and beautifully shaped like little round pearls. Poo Pearls.

I drank some green tea and did some yoga and you can shut up. I out smugged even myself this morning and by my fourth round of Sun Salutations I wanted to punch myself in the lentils. It’s all good being healthy and wholesome and nurturing of yourself but there still the faint whiff of Get these hippy freaks away from me about it.

And then get this. I went for a walk. Despite the fact I’d slept terribly the previous night. Despite the fact I’d planned to watch Prince of Persia. What is that? It’s like being in the mind of a fourteen year old boy high on aerosols and E numbers. There is too much leaping in this film, I thought indignantly, switching it off. Like Parkor, but deadly, deadly dull. Instead I went on A Country Walk through fields so swamped with mud and gunge that they resembled the Bog of Eternal Stench from Labyrinth. Gunk without the muppets. This isn’t a problem. ‘There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes’ the proverb tells us. I never thought I’d need to say this but let me tell you RIGHT NOW that today I was wearing some seriously bad clothes.

That’s bad meaning bad, not bad meaning good.

I took the footpath leading through the fields and into the woods. A farmer was at the bottom of his field tinkering meaningfully with his shed. I don’t know what he was doing. He could have been dancing in a cloak of human skin for all I noticed, as all my attention was focused on not falling over in the precarious mud slicks at the bottom of the field. He looked me up and down and wished me Good Morning. I responded. He continued to stare before saying meaningfully,

“Field’s muddy at the top.”

Trust me, it’s not a euphemism for bum sex, such was my crushing disappointment.

I told him I’d be fine. He looked concerned. And well he might, because this is the shit I was wearing.

Fake fur coat. Cowboy boots. Big shades. Legwarmers.

Let me give you some context. People were passing me on the way up the field wearing the sort of gear you’d usually find of a fucking SHERPA. They had cagoules, macs, jumpers, wellies, waterproofs, sou’westers and hiking gear. There were St Bernards with barrels of brandy round their necks. Pack horses. Sled dogs. You get the picture.

I looked a tit. I was wearing something more suited to lounging about on a velvet chaise lounge instagramming photos of my knockers and my Tinie Tempah, provided that is what I’m currently calling my vagina.

Fuck you, mud. Fuck you right in the face.

The farmer nodded and off I went, all the way to the top of that frigging field. Keep going, I told myself, delighted with my stamina, keep going. The mud by the gate was fathoms deep and glossy brown, pockmarked with stagnant water. There was no way through it, and surrounding it were snarls of brambles. Praising my quick thinking I leapt onto the gate, holding onto it with my feet planted on the bottom rail like a kid, and kicked away from the wall. Out, out I swung, over the vast mudbath, out, out and just as I was getting ready to leap off at the other side the gate slowed, slowed and drew to a stop just over a patch of rich brown sludge which looked as if it would suck off your boots and then your LEGS.

Look at this SHIT just waiting to claim me.

 

With no firm ground I had nowhere to push off from, and nowhere to get off. The only way was down, down into the toxic brew beneath my feet. I laughed aloud because it seemed appropriate. Then I saw the farmer walking up the hill toward me. There I hung, marooned on the gate in my cowboy boots and fake fur like a budget Joan Collins. There I hung like the world’s least entertaining clown. The farmer said nothing. Not a word. NOTHING. He simply pushed the gate closed and off I went with it, safe to the other side where I got off. Still with no word he turned around and walked off down the hill. Although he might have muttered Tosser as he went although that may have been my imagination. It could just as easily have been Twat.

Posted by daisypearce in Real Thoughts From Inside My Brain, Wellbeing Tags: Hippy, Lentils, Mud Mud MUD, New Year New ME, Walking, Woods