I once did a sponsored 25 mile walk and hobbled gamely home along with the stragglers for the last 5 or so miles. I supposed I was fit at a tender 18 and full of student invincibility.
The damage that caught me out was a dark purple, saucer-sized bruise that had mysteriously appeared on the front of my left thigh, which was shriekingly tender in it’s centre. The 10p coin in my jeans pocket was the culprit, and I had been oblivious to the thin end of the wedge.
What I’m leading up to is a small window into the kind of background vigilance for things like a couple of grains of sand in the wrong place… (between the toes when soggy for instance) and the kind of ruthless vetting that the most important garments were subject to as I was grappling with ‘what to bring’ decisions.
Banished… Scratchy labels, even the slightest suspect seam, anything remotely tight/too floppy etc.
Not for one moment have I regretted my wonderful shirt (Rohan expedient check, tangerine) which washes and is almost dry as soon as it hangs up, my Sprayway shorts (brown… Believe it or not, I wanted to somehow in colour reflect Beethoven’s earthiness) ditto, and I have to mention the sheer joy of my Brook’s saddle, which is now moulded in a particularly satisfying way. It is also happens to be the most beautiful polished conker colour and when parked in the rain, wears a distinguishing turquoise blue bath hat! Eccentric? Me?
I have allowed myself this fanatical indulgence and am glad to say I have no idea what sort of dreadful horrors I have evaded.
I think the Princess had a point!