Footloose (or Shoe Post Three, I suppose)

On Thursday, I went to work as usual.

Well, not quite as usual. It had been raining all week, which meant that the dryer was busy and the line under the house heaving with those things not friendly for the dryer - like bras and stockings (well, I don't wear stockings - urgh - but those stocking-y socky things that I wear under trousers with shoes).

So on Thursday, I grabbed my shoes and handbag and keys, kissed Paris and V goodbye ('Salina was still at my sister's) and went downstairs to put on my shoes and stocking-y socky things - only I didn't, because I realised that I only had x minutes to get to work, when it takes y minutes to get there and x was a smaller number than y - so I made the decision to put on my shoes and stocking-y socky things when I got there.

So on Thursday, I drove to work (in silence - don't ask me about the stereo) barefoot (yes, illegal in some states) and actually got there in x minutes (woo hoo) and contemplated putting the seat back and putting on my shoes and stocking-y socky things in the car - when I thought, nah, much more comfy to do this in my office chair, so I walked barefoot in to work.

So on Thursday, I got in to work, said good morning to my colleagues and chatted while I sat down, pulled on my stocking-y socky things and grabbed my shoes. My black shoes. My brand-new black shoes as the stitching in my old black shoes had started to disintegrate on Monday.

Only they weren't. My brand-new black shoes, that is. Well, technically, one was. The left one. The other one was one of my old black shoes. The left one.

On Thursday, I was very quiet (especially when I snuck up on people).