Putting the boots in

We have the good fortune to live next door to a football referee.
And no, he doesn’t wear spectacles.
And no, we have no reason to suspect he may need them either.

He has a loud voice, especially when watching footie on the telly. Though we assume that when he shouts, it’s the players he is shouting at.
What else do we know about him?
Not much really.
Though we happen to know he has quite a few spare pairs of football boots. Though not as many spare pairs as he had this time last week.
That is because as the son troops off with the father on the boot-buying expedition that means it must be the start of the new school year, they pause as they pass the neighbour and they begin to chat. As they do.
Eventually, the subject gets round to football. As it does.
Then football boots.
And the shopping trip.
They don’t need to go shopping, the neighbour tells them. He is always being presented with boots. It would be impossible to wear them all. He has several pairs, still boxed, sitting on the top of the wardrobe.
So it is that one hour after leaving the house on a shopping expedition – without venturing further than next door’s garden gate – the son returns with two very smart pairs of boots .
We attempt to present the neighbour with a bottle of wine as a “thank you�.
Which he refuses to accept.
So the son writes a note and pushes it though the letter box.
I only mention this because I am about to embark upon a much-looked-forward-to shopping trip for a very-much-needed suit for work.
The husband tells me to have a good time and not to worry too much about the cost. He is sure we’ll make it through to the end of the month. Probably. Though if I could hang on until next month that would be a good thing.
Alternatively, had I considered popping next door? The referee’s wife has a lovely wardrobe of clothes. I could pretend I need to borrow a cup of sugar.

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