An English In Kentucky


















May 2nd 2010    Tim Candler

    The old saying is that Clematis likes a cold foot.  I too am like that to the extent that when confined for extended periods my own feet seem to redden and boil creating a torpor in me that leads to ill-temper and a general grumpiness that belays all possibility of the good humor that bloom implies. Then, when I release my feet from their formal wear they respond with an aroma the Grey cat finds alarming and which inclines the Grey Cat's Mistress toward noises that suggest impalement.    

    One answer is to pursue nut-eating footwear.   The sort of shoe that leaves an observer distressed by the possibility of being in the presence of some sort of religious fanatic or environmental warrior.   The better answer is to reduce travel altogether by staying home.  Often this is impractical, so invariably I opt for the other shoe, which is a walking boot I use for garden work during colder days.

    But tomorrow I have an appointment and last time I honored an appointment my socks had holes in them.   As I stood in line to pass through those inevitable inspections modern living appears to have incurred, I became quite distracted by the sight of a man in front of me being asked to remove his shoes.   He was wearing a well polished cowboy boot, and he seemed quite proud of them.

      Fortunately tomorrow's appointment entails a skin blotchiness examination, where everyone in that profession appears to be of extremely tender age, with olfactory senses still very much intact.  And I am an old fart lucky to be able to walk around.   Which means tomorrow's important decision on footwear is more easily made.

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