Death of the Uggs

I was persuaded to go to the stable this afternoon with my daughter. I should have been more wary.

    What would you expect to find in a stable of approximately thirty five horses - in the middle of a field? Excretions of both varieties? Plenty of that, but also mud. Remember, this is England the island of rain. It's always raining although there is a maliciously apocryphal rumour that it stopped once; in August 1942 apparently. However since then it hasn't stopped - ever. 

    So when my daughter wailed and pointed to her new Uggs, the seventh pair as I recall, her face was a picture of woe. 

    'Well why did you bring them? I've got wellies and I only come up here about three times a year. Where are yours?'
    A reasonable question I thought. That was until she fixed me with "the look."

    'You hate...'

    'Don't start.' I sighed, 'Or I'll leave your rotting corpse in the dung heap.' She glared malevolently at me, but not before staring meaningfully at the pitchfork.

    That's when I finally got it. She's had the Uggs for almost a whole week. Obviously some new, expensive and wholly useless piece of designer footwear has hit the shops. I suppose her very accommodating pony is shortly going to stamp on them or eat them or conveniently drop something steaming and wet all over them, just like it did on her last four cell phones.