RICHARD'S BOOTED LIFE

       Since I was a small boy I have loved rubber boots. I remember that at the age of 4 (this image has stayed fixed in my mind) I found myself together with my pork butcher father and his employee, Norbert, who was in the process of shaving the pork trotters, when my gaze fixed on his brown boots. I immediately felt an emotion.
        I then invented a game which consisted of putting as many paper pellets as possible into Norbert’s boots who protested as a matter of form. Some years later Norbert bought some half-lined, black Hutchinson waders for working in the abattoir. I watched impatiently through the kitchen window for his return. He arrived, his clothes impregnated with the characteristic smell of dead animals. This made me feel sick but I was well rewarded, when he took off his waders, by the still strong odour of feet and rubber which came out of them. From time to time I took his boots in order to walk in the river, feeling the pressure of the water against my legs or I would go to the shed where there were stocks of wood shavings and sawdust for lighting the fire for smoking ham and sausages. There with the help of a small spade I filled the boots with wood shavings. When they were full, with some difficulty I freed my feet and emptied my boots; this little game could last some hours.
        At primary school, Michel often wore beige boots that I envied. I often followed this classmate during his travels around the village but, to my great regret, he never lent me his boots.
       Then it was at collège where the farmers’ sons often wore boots during the winter season. I bought a pair of light beige in order to meet up with about twenty fellow students in boots from morning to night. After dinner I gladly went to the cloakroom, plunged in darkness, in order to caress and then put on the Aigle or Baudou, which I particularly liked, for some seconds.

       At secondary school a farm adjoined the school. This meant I could see the comings and goings of the farmer in solid black boots all the year round. I was keen to see the arrival of the third sunny term as, from my bed every morning, I heard the farmer going to the neighbouring field to milk the cows. He was in shorts and, with each of his quick steps, the rubber of his unlined boots slapped against his naked calves like a whip. I can still hear this incredibly exciting sound today !

       After secondary school, one summer I had the opportunity of going to Germany with a group of young people, as part of international aid with the aim of participating in the construction of a retirement home. By chance we arrived at the beginning of the construction in order to carry out the earthworks and the foundations in the mud. Hans, a German worker, lent me his tall black unlined boots, much bigger than my size but I turned them down so that they held on to my feet. At the end of the day, I delightedly thrust my right hand into the boots in order to extract the sand and gravel ; on coming out my fingers lingered brushing the rough cotton linings, yellowed by the years of dirty wet work and by my own sweat, mixed with the virile smell of Hans.

       
       Military service completed, I returned home. Norbert had been replaced by Mathieu, a handsome guy 20 years old with brown hair. One evening, while he was away, I could not wait any longer and I hurried to the cupboard where his boots were arranged, went into his bedroom, got hold of his clothes thrown negligently on a chair, went down to the bathroom where in haste I put on his red shirt, his jeans and his short black unlined Baudou boots (which he had never cleaned). I immediately became submerged with pleasure.

       I passed my first professional years in training. One afternoon I had the audacity to put on my green Le Chameau to go to class. Thinking I would look ridiculous, I was welcomed by the applause of my students. On holiday I loved to furtively slip out at night, by the light of the moon, into the workshops (then unlocked) where there was a clammy atmosphere soaked up from a mixture from cement, oil and sweat. I then found the dirtiest pair of worker’s boots and, after sniffing their strong smell, I slipped them on at the height of pleasure !

    I actually possess 7 pairs of boots and 3 pairs of waders. My preference is for big black farmers’ or sewer workers’ boots. I wear my boots as often as possible : for gardening, DIY, going for walks, racing or making meetings. In this case, I put them under my jeans not so much for discretion but to experience the sublime sensation of rubber on my skin...

   It is no less pleasant after having worked for a long time in unlined boots, to take them half off, then to walk normally, which, due to the accumulated sweat, provokes an agreeable sucking noise which tickles and compresses the feet alternately. However one must be careful not to prolong this entertainment for too long as repeated suction risks piercing the lining of the feet and the legs as a result of the pressure exerted on the rubber being too strong. I had a bad experience of this.

       So, rubber boots fan that I am, I just missed one pair of chest waders; a real pair, in rubber of course, and rubber flourishing... really well !