Since One’s feet caused a sensation unparralled since Marilyn’s frock blew up over that air vent…
Here are One’s recently acquired new walking boots.
They do let in a fair poundage of terra firma through the bondage style straps, but hey, if a fellow walker can’t be gentleman enough to bathe One’s toes in a babbling brook, whatever is the world coming to?
One is anxious in the extreme to discover what wilderness One will be required to traverse in One’s party frock on the morrow.
Even LG, who has known One since the ‘Red Hat’ days made the pitifully ridiculous plea for One to scramble up a stone-ridden path to the top of the world to peer at a heap of rocks on atop Beakery Duncan. And not a burro in sight to carry One’s Chloe Paddington.
I come from ‘up the smoke’ (London, Michael) we like to regard the scary greenness of the countryside from the TV screen.
WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THESE CHAPS
The sum of One’s communing with nature is when One sits outside (very close to the back door) with a glass of something divine.
Returning to One’s feet…
One is now toying with the idea of displaying a different body part per day to further intoxicate you, Dear Reader.
Tomorrow, a perfectly manicured digit, perchance…
Then an elbow (so recently broken on the beach in Corfu) I ask you, Dear Reader, one sodding stone on the entire beach and One has to fall on it!
Perhaps an arthritic knee to ponder upon?
Maybe a slightly puffy ankle, never quite recovered from falling from One’s clunky, Elton John style platforms in 1974?
‘her thighs are ruined, she wants too much’ Leonard Cohen
Not a thigh then…
One thinks not then, Dear Reader!