I got the boots, after a marathon day in Glasgow's shops. Knee-high, with buckles. In those shoes, I feel like I can stomp round the world. I go shopping about once every 6 months, and have developed a kind of military approach. I know what I want and hunt and hunt until I find it. Nothing else, and no substitutes. Apparently I'm hell to go shopping with, because I take it Seriously.
After six hours, with bloodshot eyes from the strip lighting and panting from heat exhaustion, trenchfoot from marching up and down Argyle Street and hair all wild with static, I got my quarry and dragged it home.
BF is trained, after a shopping trip, to compliment me approximately every half hour. 'Why, what beautiful boots!' 'That's such a good colour on you' etc etc. Rounds the day off nicely.
And for dinner we feasted on roadkill. Yes, to continue the horror theme that seems to be rife this week, I got in and started plucking and gutting a beautiful hen pheasant that my mother found on the road. I like feeling like a proper capable country girl, but to be honest, when one has one's hand in the erse of an animal... I turn a little pale.
Well, that will have frightened off the vegetarians. Honestly, I'm not doing this blog thing right, am I? I promise soon I will get back to the subject of erotica, somehow. Or sex, at least.
Do shoes count?