Being a dog walker in the West of Scotland, you’re generally able, through regular practice, to steel yourself against the vagaries of both the job and the weather.
For instance, like others in this profession, I accept that most days I’m likely to get rather wet. That’s just the way it goes here in Renfrewshire. If it’s sunny and warm, then you’re either deluded, drunk, hopeful, or simply about ten minutes away from being rained upon.
Also, being self-employed, it goes without saying that I work even with cracked ribs, pulled hamstrings, strained achilles ….. or a cold. Flu, even.
And should the fates conspire to present me with a cough and headache to go with my cold, while at the same time dumping the contents of Storm Jimmy on my shiny bonce, then I can cope. Just about.
Perhaps, though, I should have just held my hands up. Surrendered. Given the Gods the satisfaction their wicked and perverse sense of humour so obviously craved.
Surely they would not then have conspired to embed a nail in my car tyre, leaving it punctured? Not in the middle of a downpour, at least? And with there being four soaking wet, and now intensely bored large dogs in the back? With there being no spare tyre issued with my particular model of car. And the nearest breakdown van being at least an hour and a half away?
To quote Basil Fawlty:
“Thank you God! Thank you so bloody much!”