Fitting for a Glove

I have been exploring the concept of gardening lately. This involves pulling up a lot of nettles. I was bold about this, wearing what looked like a robust pair of gardening gloves, in reassuring, sensible grey. I was somewhat annoyed to be stung quite aggressively by a nettle, and my fingers were throbbing inside the so called protective outer wear. The stings hurt like I had forgotten they could (been about thirty years since the last sting), then my fingers swelled up and went all itchy.

I was reminded of my oven gloves, hand crafted by an ancient relation who died about twenty years ago. The gloves were, and still are, too thin. Every time I get something out of the oven, I risk taking a layer of skin off my hands. Twenty years of this seems a bit daft. I have finally decided to treat myself to new oven gloves, packed full of some new lining that could fend off the sort of heat Red Adaire faces daily. I will also buy some gardening gloves that could roar with laughter at those cactii you see in the distance in Road Runner cartoons. The ones that keep repeating when he runs anywhere...... that was so disappointing in cartoons. I felt cheated.

Just like I feel cheated by my oven and gardening gloves.