Let me count the ways, or waylay a count, or count on my family for moral support (must rest for a moment; stomach hurts from laughing at this last bit).
Seriously, if that's possible, I feel the need for some excitement and, maybe, a bottle of wine to share with friends. A nice bottle of Australian Shiraz sounds perfect. Combined with the aforementioned excitement, this would then make for some Shirazamatazz. Perhaps I should be getting paid by the word. Yes, I think I should.
My project for this week, or until I am successful, is finding a pair of black lace-up, unlined, leather and leather-soled, boots, with a one and half to two inch full heel. Preferably Brazilian ( no wax jokes, please). Unfortunately, or stupidly, though I prefer the former, I lost a pair of these boots during my last move. Had had them for years, even walked over vast expanses of Southern Wales and much of London in them, and had them lovingly re-soled twice.
Now they're gone, and my feet request a break from high fashionable heels and low sensible shoes. Where oh where, cry my feet, are the boots which constituted the middle road, the Zennest path? Where are the boots which sit on the fence overlooking function on one side and beautiful form on the other?
I have a newsflash for the complaining peds - no boots, thus far, of this description, to be found anywhere. I have spoken.
Wishing myself good hunting, I blog off now, to look for boot-filled pastures (or stores), where the boots I need recognize me and come home with me to be cherished forever (much like my pets, who were previously unwanted or unappreciated). And re-soled on a regular basis. Unlike my pets, who live a life of ease and comfort, with their original soles and souls.
I've sent out the booting pigeon and must await its successful return. Unless that means something unpleasant. In which case, I will have moved again.
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