Sunday, 8 May 2016

Goody two shoes...

Words from a Bird.  Day 129.

I love Saturdays.  I recognise that this is an expected emotion for anyone who works Monday to Friday, but I really do love Saturdays.

It's the one day a week when I catch up with my family over large cappuccinos and a sausage sandwich.  (In two words, I have managed to make Baroosh in Marlow sound like a greasy spoon roadside café when it is anything but).  My sister, Miss R, flew home overnight from Barbados.  She was that desperate to see everyone yesterday morning, that she nearly came straight from the airport.  She also tried to pay the bill with Barbados dollars which was a little worrying...

The other reason I like Saturdays is that there is usually one of the children in residence (this week it is son number 1 and son number 2) which means that dog duty can be delegated.  There is always ironing to be bargained with when I make the request for a walk, and yes, I do always win funnily enough.  This meant that I had a little longer with my sister, which also meant that I spent more money this morning that I would have done if she hadn't been with me. 

I also managed to go through three pairs of shoes between 10.00am and 1.15pm.  I had decided on a pair of leather sandals with one of those silly toe posts this morning, as the day was so beautiful.  By 10.09, my toes were rubbed raw.  'That's alright', said Miss R, 'I have a pair of sandals in the car which you might like'.  Now I'll be honest with you, I was in that much pain, that if someone had offered me a pair of waders at that point, I would have snatched them out of their hands.  As it was, they were a very expensive pair of wedged sandals, right up my street. A quick shoe change, with the torture flats being thrown into my car, and off we went to meet the others. 

Now between my car and the café, I managed to fall off these donated shoes three times.  Once in the gutter, once while crossing the road, and lastly into the arms of some charming chap trying to raise money for a charity.  When he saw that I could barely walk, he obviously decided that I spent all my money on drink, so probably wouldn't be worth pestering.  I staggered on, using my sister as a human version of a bike stabiliser, walking as though I was on a tightrope. 

After breakfast, the retail therapy started.  In shop number four, a pair of shoes was bought.  At my age, it's no longer acceptable to ask to wear them home, so into a bag they went.  My sister and I parted company, and I gingerly walked unaided to my car (only falling off the wedges another two times without my human Zimmer Frame by my side).  Once back at the car, the wedges were whipped off, and thrown into the boot with the torture flats, and I swapped over to the new shoes.

So after my Imelda Marcos morning,  it was time to return home.  The weekly food shop had been delivered in my absence, and the two boys had unloaded it and put it away.

I say 'put it away', but this implies an element of sorting and appropriate positioning.  Fat fridge and food cupboards looked like edible Hanging Gardens of Babylon, with the food (still in its packaging) clinging to the shelves for all it was worth, only relinquishing its tenuous grip every time I opened the fridge door. 

Having located most of the food (I still can't find the salami) and put it in its rightful place, it was time for a quick cup of tea and then out for dinner with the husband and Miss R.

Like I said, I love Saturdays...
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