'Can you come and clean my carpet? Up on the farm, it is.'
A mental picture popped into my head.
Greasy cap, well-worn jacket, green, sheep-poo splattered wellies and a jovial yet weather-beaten face.
He was nice. Chatty and friendly. We arranged to go up to his farm the following Monday.
Monday came. You know Mondays? They are horrible. Mondays should be banned. No one wants to make an effort on a Monday. I rolled out of bed and stared at my greasy locks in the bathroom mirror. I should have washed it over the weekend. Oh well, it was only a farmer. What did it matter? Should I wear make-up? Nah. Couldn't be bothered. Contact lenses? Couldn't be bothered with them, either. I plopped on my old specs. They would do. Who's going to see me?
We drove up a winding, narrow lane to the farm. See? Just as I thought. A little old farmer. He wouldn't mind if I looked a tad scruffy today. It was Monday, after all.
The farm was old and rambling. I climbed out of the van, walked up to the door and rang the bell. The door opened and my jaw hit the floor and bounced back up again.
Oh,****!
'Hello,' I said in a strangled voice as my hands, instinctively, tried to smooth my greasy, uncombed hair. 'Er...we've come to clean your carpet.'
'Hello,' he beamed.
Let me tell you, he was definitely not a little old farmer in a greasy cap and well-worn jacket.
Mid 40s? Very smartly dressed. And that wasn't the smell of sheep-poo wafting over me, it was cologne. Expensive cologne. And if that wasn't bad enough he was then joined by his equally smart brother.
And then I looked at his shoes and my heart sank.
No green wellies. Smart shoes. Really nice, smart shoes. The kind of shoes men in the city wear with their equally smart suits.
Look at your feet, dear readers. What do you see? Shoes tell people everything about you.
I looked at my feet. Scuffed trainers with a spot of bleach on each toe.
'Come in and see the carpet,' he said.
'Um. I'll just fetch my husband first,' I mumbled as I fled.
Husband was propping up the van, reading the back page of the newspaper. He looked no better. His baggy, old combat trousers bore a few patches his mum had sewn on. He hadn't shaved and he was wearing his P.C. Plod shoes. They have a bit of a bump on each toe. He got them off eBay, says policemen wear them and they're very comfy (They look a bit like clown shoes but I haven't the heart to tell him.)
I knocked him out of the way, swung open the van door and dived into my bag, hoping in vain there was an old forgotten mascara lurking in the bottom or at the very least -- a comb.
There was nothing.
And even if there was. What was I going to do? Slap a load of make-up on my face. What would the farmer have thought? (actually he wouldn't have thought anything because it turned out he danced at the other end of the ballroom but I wasn't to know that at the time, was I?)
'What are you doing?' husband said, annoyed, as he picked his paper off the floor.
'Why did you let me leave the house looking like this?' I snapped.
'What? You look all right?'
'Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?'
I peered in the wing mirror. Errwww. I looked a sight. Licked my fingertips and ran them over my eyebrows, as if that was going to make a difference!
Now you, dear readers, probably look lovely without make-up. All fresh and clear-skinned.
But me?
How do I describe myself?
Okay, well maybe I'm not this bad and I do have hair.
Actually, as for my hair? I'd give a Heron's nest a run for its money, anyday. In fact once, a few years back, I was sitting in the garden and a sparrow landed on my head. Several rather rude people, who shall not be named, said it probably mistook my hair for it's nest and if I stayed still long enough I might get a few eggs laid on it.
I decided to hide as much as possible. Let the husband be the scruffy focal point. He wouldn't care. He has a cardigan with holes the size of the Grand Canyon in the elbows. He says he's waiting for me to 'darn' them. Darn? What is 'darn'? Does anyone 'darn' these days??
So I hid in the farmers outhouse where my husband had sent me to fill buckets of water for his carpet cleaning machine.
'Well, aren't you going to help?' husband whined when he noticed me loitering in the outhouse.
I looked both ways. Coast was clear.
'It's all right for you,' I retorted. 'You'd turn up to meet the Queen in those trousers. I've got pride, y'know? That man must think we're a right pair of scruffs!'
Husband rolled his eyes and stalked off into the house.
'Coffee?' the farmer called out.
My shoulders slumped.
'Chocolate biscuits?'
'Lovely. Very kind of you,' I mumbled, avoiding eye contact. I swear he must have thought I was a bit simple. Probably thought my husband brought me along because my carer was having a day off.
We did the job and to say he was charming was an understatement. He was absolutely lovely and so was his brother. And by far the best dressed Welsh farmer I have ever seen.
On the way home, I stared at my husband's stubbly chin and sighed.
'Y'know we really should make a bit more of an effort,' I said.
Husband shrugged nonchalantly.
'And those trousers are going in the bin for starters,' I added.
I've given myself a big slap on the wrist. Even if our customer had turned out to be a wizzened old farmer with a tweed jacket and milk-bottle glasses, it wouldn't have made a difference, only our best is good enough, whether it's our work or our appearence.
And as for me - I am NEVER leaving the house without my makeup on! You never know who you're going to meet. I mean, it could have been Jose Mourinho. Mmm. Up a Welsh mountain - maybe not.
