Importantly, the entire ensemble is pulled together by a chunky pair of steel-capped work boots in stylish brown. The sort you can wear out on the farm and to a meeting in town if you need.
Anyway. I was thus a picture of sartorial elegance as I drove up to the second or third farmhouse on my list for inspection the other day.
Now, I don't know if you are familiar with dairy farms. If you are you'll know what I mean when I say, depending on where exactly you go on the property there can be a lot of cow poo around. An awful lot of it in fact.
As I say, I am not a complete novice when it comes to the country way of life, but unlike most rural folk who take that sort of thing in their stride and just wade through, I found myself trying to tiptoe through the minefield to protect my new boots etc as I inspected the exterior of the house.
The rest of the day brought similar negotiation around the icky stuff with reasonable success.
But at the last house I had to drive thru a small herd of cattle in the long driveway.
The house inspection complete, I made my way back through the 40-or-so cows as I headed out to the main gate. This time they followed me.
Luckily, I've watched Country Calendar a bit so I figured I'd just clap my hands and tell them to "get away" in a tough, manly voice. That sort of thing.
So, I get down to the gate and get out of the car. The cows are maybe 20 yards behind me.
I figure I can't open the gate, drive through, get out of the car and back to close the gate behind me before one or more of them bolts through.
So, I take a deep breath and march towards them, clapping my hands and asking them to move back.
Surprisingly, they do. Except for one who just stands stands there, presumably pondering who this pratt is with the new pants and shiny workboots.
I'm having none of this. I need to assert my authority so I raise my voice a bit, clap a bit harder and walk towards the beast.
I'm about three yards away and on the brink of having to come up with a new plan when she slowly turns and starts to move off.
Unfortunately, the other cows are a bit slow to move and she can't go far. So she stops. I've kept walking and clapping and I suddenly find myself pretty darn close to her rear end.
Much, much too close as it turns out.
The word "explosion" best explains what happened next.
I would like to tell you I was too quick and agile to be caught by the foul mess that slopped my way at the speed of sound.
I would also like to tell you I drove home still wearing my new pants and boots.
But if the truth be told I didn't. They were dumped together in a stinky, muddy, pooey heap in the boot awaiting the best efforts of the Mrs P Cleaning Company.
The only good thing about the experience was I arrived home on dark so nobody could see my state of undress.
Obviously, Mrs P was unaware. As I pulled up in our driveway she called out for me to bring in some firewood on my way to the front door.
I figured I could easily complete the task barefoot and in my boxer shorts, so off I went on a shortcut across the lawn to the woodshed.
And on the way I stepped in the biggest pile of dog poo you've ever seen.
