A Right Pair

Remembering Hubert and Henry

Photo by Josh Calabrese on Unsplash

I still remember them — even though they are no longer with us.

‘The Hardy Twins’ — I called them. They called me — ‘Lady Posh’. We were connected. Sort of cousins — quite a lot removed!

Hubert and Henry always travelled together — they were inseparable.

A tough and hard-working duo — a contrast to my relaxed preferences.

They did everything together. The prefect pairing — that’s what Henry said. And he knew best.

They had journeyed around the globe.

Climbing, walking, running — they were tremendously energetic. Gave me slack knees just thinking about them. I was too beautiful for exercise.

Occasionally I had accompanied them on their adventures — not by any choice of mine — but sometimes you just had to go.

Hubert and Henry adored the great outdoors — embracing rain and mud — heat and sweat.

Consequently — most of the time — they were too disgusting to be close to.

I hung back until they washed but they never stayed clean for long.

For myself — I enjoyed the quiet life. Dining out, dancing, entertaining — all those pleasurable interests. Breaking sweat was not in my nature.

They both scoffed at my languid ways.

After a while all their strenuous habits began to take their toll. Hubert began to look tired. Henry seemed to cope a little better but not by much.

I had warned them to slow down and take a break now and then.

Would they listen? No they would not.

Then they decided to compete in a marathon.

Hours and hours of training. So much sweat. Ugh! So much washing. Ahh!

But as the marathon drew closer the signs of collapse began to show.

I felt for them. I really did. But overachieving is certainly not worth it.

I remember the day well. The Final day.

They had been out running in the rain for hours. Soaking wet they were when they returned home. Covered in mud. They were in a horrible state.

Revolting sneakers were thrown off and socks removed. Then I noticed them.

The Hardy twins were falling apart. Large holes and loose yarns. I had warned them.

Fingers picked up the dilapidated pair of socks from the floor and unceremoniously deposited them in a rubbish bin.

Dangling down from the back of a dining chair — I stared at them from across the room and sighed.

‘I’ also ‘them’ for I was one piece but had two legs — revelled in my expensive gossamer silkiness and survival.

It never pays to be too practical.