On our last day of our Walking on the Amalfi Coast holiday, which was a bit of a practice run for walking up Kili, I made the stupid mistake of putting on my long Johns underneath my walking trousers. I had needed them on some of the previous days – it had been very cold when we were up high – but I certainly did not need them on that last day, when sweat was soon pouring off me. I ended up stripping off my trousers and continuing in my undies. Some others in the group were very gallant, saying that they looked quite snazzy – as if!
It reminded me of another long John moment some years ago. Stew and I were in Glasgow one frosty December, walking through the centre of town. For a few years, he had been thinking about getting a kilt – mainly to wear to Burns Night and other such functions, which we regularly attend at Canterbury Scottish Society – but also for wearing to weddings and other celebrations. Normally men get measured for a kilt and get it made to those measurements in their family tartan. However on this chilly day, we spotted a sale of ex-hire ready-made kilts and thought we would have a look.
There were two or three kilts which looked like distinct possibilities and were very reasonably priced, so Stew decided to try a couple of them on. He came out of the changing room wearing a pale blue mix kilt. He looked quite dashing in it: he has always had lovely looking slim legs! We agreed that the kilt was definitely a keeper, but he would need the rest of the outfit to go with it. The shop assistant said it would be best to start from the feet up, so Stew was sat down, so she could help him with socks and shoes.
It was at this point that I realised that he was looking distinctly uncomfortable. The very young girl assistant insisted in helping him into a pair of long socks, while Stew wriggled to try to keep the kilt covering his knees. I then caught a glimpse of something white peeping out under the kilt and realised what was causing his embarrassment. Instead of taking off his long Johns in the changing room, as a true Scot should have done, he had pulled them up and they were all bumfled (look it up in the urban dictionary – it really is a word) up above his knees!! I was struggling to keep a straight face as the young girl kept yanking his legs about, first to get him into socks and then to try the special kilt shoes on to his feet. He wanted out of there as fast as possible, but she was determined to get everything just right, and was down on her knees at his feet, sorting him out.
I just about held it together until we got out of the shop, when I couldn’t stop laughing. Stew has never quite understood what I thought was so funny about it. In fact when I reminded him of that occasion today and he realised I was likely to blog about it, he said he would not be talking to me again until after August, when I come back from having climbed – or perhaps not having climbed – Kilimanjaro and the blogging has ceased! I hope he relents: it is all in a good cause.
