New shoe shuffle
Back at work on Monday after two weeks off and shoes are in a sorry state. Decide that it's time to get a new pair of work shoes and, after tense negotiation in shoe shop, get a pair I'm happy with. Wear in office all afternoon and am content, also content that i have broken them in.
Which is why i put them on this morning to go top work.
This was possibly a mistake. I've been wearing nothing but sandals for two weeks and my old shoes were, as I put it 'comfortable' and as the good lady puts it 'f**ked'. True, they might have a certain vagabondish charm, but they fit like slippers.
This is possibly why, half way to the station, my cosseted feet were squealing in protest. There was chaffing, there was a twinge, there was an uncomfortable sensation.
By the time it was time to walk home there was agony, the requirement for skin grafts in the heel area and a panic phone call to the good lady asking for a lift from the station.
Not just because of the feet situation either. The rain was coming down like stair-rods and the thunder rolled like a very loud climatic event. Britons are totally unprepared for any kind of weather...and this from a race that are supposed to carry their brollies everywhere. Certainly those without shooting pains in their feet and a lift on the way looked bloody glum at the prospect of walking home in a deluge, possibly because they had neglected to bring their paddles.
Dunno much about climate change but it's bloody wet. Mediterranean climate my arse, this was like f**king Bangkok. Made me want to slip into the 'Claret bar' and order a ladyboy, water by.
Right, I'm off to apply some sticking plasters to my affected areas and wring out the back-garden.
Which is why i put them on this morning to go top work.
This was possibly a mistake. I've been wearing nothing but sandals for two weeks and my old shoes were, as I put it 'comfortable' and as the good lady puts it 'f**ked'. True, they might have a certain vagabondish charm, but they fit like slippers.
This is possibly why, half way to the station, my cosseted feet were squealing in protest. There was chaffing, there was a twinge, there was an uncomfortable sensation.
By the time it was time to walk home there was agony, the requirement for skin grafts in the heel area and a panic phone call to the good lady asking for a lift from the station.
Not just because of the feet situation either. The rain was coming down like stair-rods and the thunder rolled like a very loud climatic event. Britons are totally unprepared for any kind of weather...and this from a race that are supposed to carry their brollies everywhere. Certainly those without shooting pains in their feet and a lift on the way looked bloody glum at the prospect of walking home in a deluge, possibly because they had neglected to bring their paddles.
Dunno much about climate change but it's bloody wet. Mediterranean climate my arse, this was like f**king Bangkok. Made me want to slip into the 'Claret bar' and order a ladyboy, water by.
Right, I'm off to apply some sticking plasters to my affected areas and wring out the back-garden.
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