Tic Tac Toe

I have managed to acquire yet another noble injury (some of you may recall my previous dip into the murky world of foot injury at the end of 2006).

Skipping, as is my wont, round the house yesterday afternoon with nought on my feet but a good pair of woollen socks my foot erroneously came into contact with the corner of a book shelf.

One humungous snap crackle and pop later... and suddenly I had a beautifully purpled little toe that had ballooned to the size of a New World red grape.

Folks, it’s going to be one helluva vintage.

Though doubting the efficacy of the family doctor Karen nonetheless packed me off to the surgery this morning and he more or less fulfilled my every expectation.

Yes it’s probably broken / fractured but there is little that can be done. It needs to be strapped to the next toe and caressed with ice. It was also recommended that I swallow whatever pain relief product I desired and, most important of all, keep the foot elevated and rested as much as possible.

Fat chance.

I’ve already spent the first 90 minutes at work this morning chasing carpenters, electricians and painters around the building.

A nice warm Shiraz anyone?

Boot Hill

It is today that, with a heavy heart, I say goodbye to a faithful pair of old boots who have stuck by me through thick and thin, carried me up and down ladders, skipped me passed aggressive street vendors and protected my delicate littlie tootsies from the offensive wattle and daub of dog turds for the last 18 months.

Their time has come. Much as I love them I am now too embarrassed to be seen (dead) in them. Click on the photo above and you will see why.

Scuffed. Ripped. Split. Collapsed. The polish corrupted into white streaks. They have had their day.

Instead they are to be replaced by a great stonking pair of toe-tector Cat boots of the highest calibre (above right). We’re talking industrial safety wear here. We’re talking boots that can crush hand grenades beneath their heels. Boots that can kick completely through Kevlar body armour. Boots that would make the American military weep in ecstatic envy.

World, I’m a-coming to get yer.

Booted and suited.

Leathered up like a good ‘un.

Down at heel but up with the best.

You can all kiss my eyeholes.

Hooker Shoes

Karen arrived home from work last night displaying that weird duality of emotion that all women generate when they have been on a lunch time shopping spree... slight guilt and embarrassment at having flayed the credit card to within an inch of its limit and extreme pride in her capacity for good taste and expert consumerist tuition. This is best summed up by the phrase “yes I’ve spent money that I probably shouldn’t have - but I got some real bargains.”

Now, before I risk a night on the sofa with only my big mouth for company, I probably ought to point out that actually Karen barely spent £50 (correct me if I’m wrong) therefore the credit card was hardly driven to breaking point and (most incriminating of all) I’m just as prone to flogging the plastic during a lunch break shopping frenzy and exhibiting the exact same ambivalence when I get home and realize I have to fess up about it.

Big up for equality and all that.

Anyway, Alvin Hall style financial debates aside, Karen’s big moment last night among the intimate pageantry of our domestic catwalk was the unveiling of The Red Shoes...

Now red shoes are a new departure for Karen who usually favours black or brown boots (the foot fetishists among you no doubt have ears eagerly pricked up at this point... or something at any rate) always being mindful of wanting to appear fashionable whilst maintaining an all-over-air of consummate professionalism. I say this not just to flatter my wife into allowing me to sleep inside the house tonight but so that you can appreciate just how surprised I was at being presented with a pair of insurmountably red high heeled shoes yesterday.

I’m hoping it’ll also explain why the first phrase out of my mouth was: “Wow, they look like hooker shoes”.

Yes. I know. If ever a man was rendered transparent by the things he says...

Knowing full well how the male mind works (which isn’t that well at all) I suppose I shouldn’t have been that surprised by my own ill formed response to the magnificent examples of machine stitched foot wear that Karen was waggling before me... but what did surprise me was Karen’s pleasurable reaction. Somehow, although I hadn’t said exactly the right thing I hadn’t said exactly the wrong thing either.

How the hell does that work then? I am really confused.

Hmm. Maybe the threat of me sleeping on the sofa this week wasn’t as real as I thought...