The Thorn Crocs

There are moments in a man’s life when he realises that irony is not a literary device but a gardening implement with a point.

Yesterday I fell foul of what I call my “safety boots”. This generous category includes flip-flops, Crocs and anything with the structural integrity of a sponge pudding. They provide precisely zero protection, which is why I reach for them whenever a job plainly requires something heavier, reinforced and vaguely adult.

On this occasion I was wearing the Crocs. Not the flip-flop welding boots, which are a separate chapter in my risk management portfolio. The Crocs are for horticultural engagements and light mechanical optimism.

I was outside, “just fixing something”. Those three words should trigger an insurance premium increase. I stepped on a thorn of heroic ambition. It went straight through the base of my Lidl Croc facsimile and embedded itself in my foot with the confidence of a planning application in a conservation area. There was hopping. There was language. There was a short but heartfelt attempt to blame the shrub.

Foam, it turns out, is not armour. It is a rumour.

Extraction required a dignified limp indoors and a rummage through Hayley’s drawer of precision implements. Nothing restores humility like standing in the kitchen, one foot raised like a mildly ashamed flamingo, asking which tweezers are the “good ones”. The thorn was removed from my hoof with due ceremony.

Then came phase two. The base of the thorn had snapped off and remained lodged inside the Croc itself, like shrapnel in a war memorial. Escalation was required. Needle-nosed pliers were deployed. There is something faintly absurd about performing delicate mechanical surgery on footwear that cost less than a sandwich. I stood there gripping the fragment like a bomb disposal technician, easing it out of the foam carcass while contemplating the immaculate steel-toed boots in the garage.

For clarity, the flip-flops are reserved for welding. Yes, welding. Molten metal descends in cheerful orange droplets while my toes consider their life choices. There is a particular choreography to shaking a glowing bead out of a sandal before it makes permanent contact. It is not covered in the training manuals.

And yet, the actual safety boots remain untouched. Heavy. Sensible. Built to withstand both thorns and physics. I shall probably use them for a wedding. Or when going out to dinner. One mustn’t waste good footwear on something as trivial as personal safety.

The thorn has been evicted. The Crocs have been debrided with needle-nosed pliers. My pride has taken a light sanding.

The proper boots still sit in the garage, pristine and judgemental, waiting for an occasion suitably formal. In the meantime, Hayley’s tweezers and a set of pliers remain the true backbone of domestic health and safety.