Walking on broken glass...

I am a broken woman.  Who would have thought that a day's shopping could be so arduous?   Leeds is a sprawling Metropolis of shops, and I reckon son number two and I completed seventeen laps of the shopping circuit yesterday.  What is more impressive is that my FatBat FitBit stated that by 3.39 yesterday afternoon, I had walked 9.58 miles.  When son number two asked if we could call it a day around 4.00 because he had some work to do, I actually think that like me, he was looking forward to going home, rolling his trouser legs up to his knees, and soaking his feet in a bowl of warm water all the while wondering how on earth he was going to ever wear shoes again, and whether slippers were an acceptable footwear alternative in February.

I accompanied my feet bathing on the side of the bath with a rather small bottle of wine from my mini bar (all included in my room price, so almost illegal not to drink it) and a copy of House and Garden.  Rather impressively, neither the wine or the magazine went into the bath, and my poor battered trotters felt lovely in the warm water.  Half an hour later when I reluctantly took them out, walking across the bedroom carpet was accompanied with muttered comments as I compared it to walking across broken glass.  I doubt they'll ever be the same again.

But the shopping trip was a success.  A new coat, a pair of boots, a lovely top and a sweater - none of this was mine naturally, but son number two was thrilled with the additions to his already burgeoning wardrobe.  (Son number two is a popinjay and most fond of clothes).

Interestingly, the hotel was rather busy yesterday.  I say it was interesting because up till then it was just me and a coach load of pensioners staying there, and the smell of lilac and talcum powder was becoming slightly overpowering.  According to the board by Reception, Asda were having a conference there all day, and various middle aged gentlemen with their shirts stretched across their ample bellies, were swanning around the foyer.  I'd love to tell you what they were talking about, but having a northern husband and best friend does not give you automatic capability of 'talking Leeds'.  The poor concierge who took my car off to park had to ask me three times what my name was before I got the gist of what he wanted.  

You know the best thing about the interaction with the concierge?  

Once I'd put my glasses on, I knew exactly what he needed to know...