Write a story about someone wearing gumboots
"Give it some throttle. For God's sake, will you give it some bloody throttle," screamed the voice behind me.

I was driving the big Massey Ferguson. My husband was forking silage off the trailer to our dairy cows, which followed, bellowing their pleasure.

A heavy dew that morning had left the ground wet and slippery. As the weight of the fully laden trailer pushed against the drawbar, the tires lost traction, causing the motor to overrun. The slope we were on stretched out like a ski run.

I pumped the brake, then again. The tractor skidded sideways. "Give it some bloody throttle!" screamed the voice on the trailer. I stood more firmly on the brake. "For God's sake..."

This voice that had whispered words of love to me, sometimes crooned "Unchained Melody" in tender moments, was now screaming—the panic of a trapped animal unable to escape.

I risked a glance back. Hands that had touched me, caressed me in lovemaking, were now grimly clutching a pitchfork for balance. I glimpsed the Grim Reaper in his shadow.

I thought... To this day, I have no idea what I thought. Heart pounding, sweat pouring down my back, I stretched out my right hand and gave it some throttle—gingerly at first, and then, hearing the big diesel respond and feeling the tractor slow its slippery skid, I gave it some more.

The tires regained traction, and I was able to straighten up and steer down to a safe area. I locked the brakes on and jumped off. A strangely subdued husband listened as I told him where to put his tractor, complete with the trailer. And then I stalked off home.

As dignified an exit as my gumboots would allow.