Yesterday I took to the streets. Alone. It was time. With a few notable exceptions, I have been imprisoned within the four walls of my house for three weeks. Actually, I am lying. One week in hospital, two at home. Please stand corrected. Whatevs, it has been tedious at times. Last week I decided that by Monday I would be well enough to walk round to see a friend. On. My. Own.
My excitement was already beginning to mount as I sorted out my clothes. Much thought went into which scarf I would be wearing. I settled on the white with red poppies. I even spurned my post op chic leggings and opted for a skirt. Obviously still with elasticated waist. Having crossed into comfort wear you cannot expect me to leap back to normal attire in one bound.
When the time came, I sorted my pockets – handbag carrying not yet a comfy option – locked the front door, and set forth. It was barely a quarter of a mile, but still, I went. Alone. Sweet freedom was mine!
And on arriving at my friend’s, I did not collapse, panting in a heap on her hall carpet. I sat in her living room, sipping my mint tea, making polite conversation like the lay-dee I am. And then I spotted my fashion faux pas. My tights. In my dim witted state I had donned a pair of navy blues. Black boots, black skirt, navy tights. I really should not be let out alone.