It’s been a funny old week so far; we all got told off at work for talking too much and heating up smelly food in the communal microwave (what’s wrong with a lunchtime fish supper I ask?), I realised that I’ve moved into the next age category in Superdrug’s Optimum skincare range (not so optimum now I’m not purchasing it though haha!), my friend got us tickets to see Alan Carr and Molly made some blueberry muffins at school which it turns out I’m the only person in the Puddington Residence to like (their loss, my weight gain).
Oh yes…..and my boots are trying to kill me.
Look to the left dear reader and you will see a small sub-section of my boot collection. I like collecting things – I used to collect empty yoghurt pots but that’s another story for another day that my Mum will take great delight in telling you. Nowadays, my collector’s items of choice are scarves, notebooks and boots. Far more sensible, if not a little more expensive.
Anyway, some time ago, on a bleak, muddy Saturday morning, my favourite black boots met an unfortunate end during an impromptu match at Eddy’s football training and I urgently needed to replace them. You see, I just can’t live without biker boots. They make me feel like Chrissie Hynde in her prime (until I catch sight of myself in a shop window) and I enjoy strutting my stuff in them when all around me others are wearing dainty little ballerina pumps or a sensible-heeled court shoe (and that’s just my husband).
So I welcomed into my home these little beauties at a bargain price of £17 from £40 in Tesco’s sale. I was about to find out the real reason for this significant reduction though……..
I decided to test them out on my weekly jaunt to the local shopping centre I affectionately call Boggy Fleas. What a mistake that was, I can tell you. First, the soles of these bad boys are about as thick as the earth’s crust. This meant that when I tried to drive in them, not only did the boot span the accelerator, brake and clutch all in one go but I also had no concept of how hard I was pressing down on the pedals. Not wishing to rev down the road in a fog of smoke like you see old people doing in their pristine twenty year-old, 305 miles-on-the-clock cars that they purchased upon retirement, I decided to abandon this idea and walk.
Not only are these soles thick, they also make a fair amount of noise. As I clip-clopped down the road like a two-legged pony, I seemed to attract quite a bit of attention and it wasn’t of the admiring kind. Now, you’d think that with all this bulk on the bottom of my foot, they would provide a perfect grip as I continued on my way but these damned boots couldn’t even do that one small thing! So with what felt like every third step, came a dramatic skid not unlike Bambi venturing out onto the ice in the old Disney classic (not that I ever saw it, I hate Disney, have I mentioned this?).
So cumbersome were these boots that by the time I’d stomped around the shops, skidded on several floors and returned home nearly twenty minutes later than I would normally take, I was exhausted! My toes felt like they’d been squeezed through a mangle, my right leg felt like it had been pulled out its socket with a pair of pliers and the soles of my boots had collected what seemed like an entire gravel pit.
Something tells me that these boots and me aren’t going to go the distance together……..