Shopping for clothes.
It's hard to go clothes shopping when you live in wellies and jeans, it's those or pink pyjamas there's not much in between.
I tend to get my work clothes from the local agri' store, but they are sadly lacking if you need a little bit more.
I got some decent trousers in the Marks and Spencer sale, and a blouse that's quite eye catching off their bargain basement rail.
But I have been invited to a wedding in the spring, and I need to get an outfit and some classy looking bling.
The first shop that I go in has a pretty flowery dress but I feel like Edna Everage and I'm getting in a stress.
The assistant tries to help me and insists I try some on, whilst I'm stood there in old knickers with the creosote stains on.
I get a lacy number stuck tight around my arms, the curse of country living the arms of those who farm.
It's getting quite depressing and I'm running out of time, I'm squashed in a pink two piece and she tells me I look divine.
But I see myself in the mirror and I look like a landrace sow, I don't have the heart to tell her and all I can say is wow.
So I wriggle out of the pig suit and hang it back on the rail, but she corners me by the counter and I stifle a heartfelt wail.
This time she's found her trump card she holds it up with glee, she says it is so perfect for someone just like me.
I see the satin ribbons I take in the yards of lace, she stands their so triumphant a smile across her face.
I look like Annie Oakley crossed with an ugly sister, she scampers round me proudly her voice hushed to a whisper.
“Oh madam you look perfect that dress is so attractive”, but the colour is bright yellow and I feel radioactive.
This time I make a run for it and escape out through the door, before the dear assistant can find me any more.
I think that I will give up and have a look online, and return to jeans and sweatshirts and a bottle full of wine. Jan Millward©