Today wasn't much better, it was raining when I picked up the Earl from school and we had to detour to post off a parcel; anyway part of the pavement was cordoned off on a busy main road and instead of waiting to cross the road I thought I'd try a shortcut through a car park and re-join the path. Big mistake: the concrete was still wet and it was like quicksand. Here's what it did to my poor DMs:
Coated huh? Do you think that there's a fetish for ladies boots slathered in concrete? I won't Google it, there's bound to be, isn't there?
They are now standing in the kitchen drying out with balls of crumpled pages from the London Evening Standard absorbing all of the excess moisture. At least it's a good use for the tabloid: don't get me wrong, I'm pleased that commuters such as me don't have to fork out 40p to peek between the covers, but it does bore me to death at times. Sometimes I 'treat' myself on the return journey by not reading it.
Finally: the lady in the post office inquired what was in my parcel. I said boots, which was fair enough and I know that it's to prevent dangerous items being sent via the Royal Mail, but what if it was a batch of dildos you were returning to say, Lovehoney or Ann Summers? Embarrassing, especially if it was during the oldie stampede on pension day.
