Does buying shoes from Clark's signal the slippery slide into old age?

Recently I purchased my first pair of Clark’s shoes.

I believe I am now officially elderly.

Buying one’s first pair of Clark’s is a right of passage – like getting your first bra or passing your driving test.

I feel it is a symbol of the decline that began several months ago when I started wearing tracksuit pants outside the house and began purchasing items based not on look, but on feel (ooh my God – is that a stretch jersey?? So soft!). It is one more sign of my descent down the slippery slope of old age.

Once upon a time, I didn’t give a crap how clothes felt. I lived in a world of man made fibres – the tighter the better. My knickers were all g strings and my heels were all towering. What has happened? When did I turn from foxy, man made fibre clad minx into a full brief wearing, cotton sporting, Clark’s shoe wearing, comfy lovin’, non minx?

I can not believe that I have taken to wearing flats in an office environment. They may be groovy Clarks shoes (red patent mary jane’s, if you don’t mind) but they are Clark’s nonetheless.

I used to wear nothing but heels – the higher the better. I have a lovely collection of heels at home that sit silently and weep when I grab my Clark’s of a morning. ‘Why?’ I hear my two tone t-barred Dune heels cry, ‘Why have you forsaken us?’ My nude bustle ruffled shoes from the Office sniffle softly beside them. Then, suddenly - my red patent, white stitched Kurt Geiger heels leaps to my aide: ‘It’s not us – it’s the cobble stones – she can’t do the cobblestones’. My Kurt Geiger heels were with me on my most recent high heeled foray into down town Falmouth which ended with me coming askance on a cobble stoned stretch of pavement and flying past Waterstones before my fall was cushioned by a bag of soft fruit (I shit thee not).

I can’t do the cobblestones! High heels in Cornwall are difficult to master. You must look at your feet the entire time. The streets of Cornwall are elderly. They are not the shiny, easy to negotiate, laid in the 20th century pavements of Brisbane. They are rickety, lumpy old things from the 17 and 1800’s. God knows what chicks used to wear in days of yore, prior to Clark’s.

Plus, my Clark’s are so COMFY. It’s like walking on air. I seriously feel my feet sigh and stretch when I slip them on.

I have high heels under my desk at work in case of meetings. And I will never, ever, go out to dinner or the theatre etc in a pair of flats.* But for daytime, cobble stone negotiating, shopping adventures in Cornwall, I am a Clark’s convert. And I’m only 38.

* once upon a time I swore I would rather die than leave the house in a pair of trasksuit pants, so God knows anything is possible…..

Are all bar attendants crap nowadays?

I love this photo. Pondy looks partially deranged. Plus, the way his glasses are positioned atop his head makes him look like he has an itty bitty head horn.

A small rant: What the hell has happened to bar attendants nowadays? Why does it take so long to get a freaking drink? I used to be a bar attendant, and I was bloody good at it. I served three to four customers simultaneously, was always nice (ie: SMILED) and could - oh wonder of wonders - ADD UP IN MY HEAD!!

Nowadays you wait roughly 200 years for service only to be asked several times during said service to repeat your order. Here is - verbatim, a conversation between yours truly and a young bar man recently:

ME: A pint of Rattler and a vodka and soda please

HIM: A pint of what?

ME: Rattler

HIM: A pint?

ME: (exhaling heavily) YES

HIM: And what else?

ME: A vodka and soda.

HIM: (starts pouring pint): Rattler, yes?

ME: FOR THE LOVE OF F***ING GOD YES!!!!

ME: (my last retort happened in my head. My actual answer was: Yes)

HIM: And a house white?

ME: No - a vodka and soda

HIM: Just soda?

ME: NO - I LIED! I'D LIKE A VODKA AND SODA, WITH SNIPS AND SNAILS AND PUPPY DOG'S TAILS!!!!

ME: (again - that happened in my head)

ME: Yes - just soda.

Stage direction: Bar attendant uses post mix gun to dispense soda in roughly 8 - 10 'bursts' of the gun. Why does he not dispense in a single stream, thus avoiding the 'fizzing up' of said mixer and the inevitable need to re-squirt??? For the love of God, WHY????

HIM: (after 60 seconds of squirting) Eight pounds thirty thanks

ME: It's actually five pounds thirty.

HIM: Oops. Sorry.

What the hell is happening?? Sure, there are a few good bar attendants around, but they are all 30 and upwards. I defy anyone to find a good bar attendant, in all of Cornwall, nay - the WORLD, who is under the age of 30. They don't exist! I believe this may be a universal problem.

Is it wrong to feel chuffed when admired by a tramp?

The other day Mr Pond and moi were strutting our stuff through the streets when, mid shop, we diverted towards a public toilet (he takes me to all the cool places). He was bursting and decided he could strut no more, so started to run ahead of me to reach the loo (he has a v small bladder. In his teenage years his nickname was 'Kid Urinate'... ). I, however, could not run as I was not only wearing heels but holding an 8 pack of toilet rolls under one arm and a frozen pizza under the other. (NB: rolls of loo paper not for use in public loo - was mid shop and forced to hold bulky items while Mr P juggled approx 35 shopping bags).

As I struggled towards the loo a strong smell of whisky and urine assaulted my nostrils. Not so unusual when approaching public conveniences, yet it appeared to be coming at me from the wrong direction. I turned and, as I did, a rakishly attractive tramp sauntered up behind me (it was a saunter / lurch combo if I must be honest) and told me I was STUNNING.

In my youth, I would have dropped my frozen pizza and fled for the safety of the Ladies. But the sun was shining, the tramp was being nice and.. well, quite frankly I don't get all that many compliments nowadays and I am more than happy to accept them from whoever is delivering - metho drinker or not.

Thank you! I said, with a swish of my hair. He walked in front of me for a few metres and pretended to take a photo (nearly tripping over a potplant mid shot). 'Really stunning!' he repeated. At this point I may, or may not, have giggled coquettishly. He stumbled on to his mates on a bench near the loos where I received a cheer (I raised my pizza aloft in recognition) and retreated to the toilets.

When Simon emerged I told him that the tramps had a lot of love for me. He did not seem altogether impressed...

How to feel virtuous with a beef jerky wrapper stuck to your face

Currently house sitting at Tam and Stephen’s while they are holidaying in Egypt . It is apparently 45 degrees in Egypt . It is summer here and we are languishing in temperatures of 17. It doesn’t seem fair.

I have been hot exactly twice since arriving in this land. Once was due to a lack of appropriate socks (I had to wear my thermal socks to a gym class – sweaty feet much?) and the other time was an incident involving a large amount of wine, a subsequent lack of hand / eye coordination and a dodgy thermostat. I woke in a cold sweat after temperatures in my bedroom approached those akin to the surface of the sun.

We have had some glorious days of late, but as it is so hit and miss I have had to cultivate a number of indoor pursuits – so far limited to playing scrabble on my DTS (high score of 437, if you don't mind), procrastinating about learning the cello, and watching films that Simon has already seen but insists I watch (in a type of cinematic solitary confinement). Simon was brought up with bizarre weather conditions. In Brisbane , if it’s sunny in the morning chances are it will still be that way come 5pm. In Cornwall , you can count on nothing. As a result, Simon had a lot of ‘indoor’ days as a young ‘un spent watching every movie ever made. And now he is ‘educating’ me. I have seen more Michael Caine movies, Westerns and fantasy flicks with v bad special effects (Jason and the Argonauts – I’m talking to you) in the last year than in the rest of my life combined.

Stephen and Tam have SKY and this weekend I discovered the delights of Cougar Town . Simon wanted to watch Sons of Anarchy (like Sopranos on motor bikes) but we flipped a coin and I was victorious. Cougar Town is ‘turn your brain off’ brilliant. Those who know me will realise that my behaviour is generally so appalling that I very infrequently take the moral high ground (but oh, how I love it when I can!). This show features women behaving so badly that I can finish off half a bottle of champers while watching (before falling asleep on the couch), wake up with a beef jerky wrapper stuck to my face, and still feel virtuous! I highly recommend.

Breastfeeding family members...

I love a trashy mag. The trashier the better. I like stories of tumours with teeth and tales of fake boobs exploding in Morrisons. However, in my most recent foray into the world of smut, I must confess I nearly ralphed when i read the story of the daughter feeding her dad her breast milk to help his fight against cancer.

I'm a fairly liberal minded gal and I know that human milk is chock full of all kinds of goodies helpful to the immune system and, apparently, quite a few cancer patients have reported better health after supping on milk fresh from the boob. I'm cool with that. In my trashy mag the girl in question had already lost her mother to cancer and was very fearful she'd also lose her dad. So, whilst feeding her new born she'd express a little extra and give it to her pa. So far, a tad icky, but can still stomach.

The problem began when she started getting chaffed norks and realised she couldn't continue to express milk anymore. So after a lot of (no doubt freaky and uncomfortable) conversation, she eventually coerced her dad into taking it direct from the boob. Good God.

Now, as I said, I'm a pretty liberal kinda gal. But turning the page of my magazine to be confronted by a fully grown woman breastfeeding her grey haired father (WHY take a picture?? WHY????) really put me off my tuna sandwich. The whole concept is borderline incestuous and smacks of men in nappies wanting to be punished. Could her nipples really be THAT sore?? I'd suffer through chipmunks gnawing through my nips before I even entertained the idea of a family member suckling on them.

And couldn't he just BUY some boob milk online? Apparently there's a thriving market for the sick (and the just plain sick) on the internet? Can't he drink a stranger's milk? Seems much more hygienic (and way less freaky). When is he fed? How frequently? Does he cry if he misses a feed?

England gets knocked out, man boobs and first aid

Most of England has been well pissed off for the last week after England's embarrassing defeat at the hands (feet?) of Germany. Le Pond and I went to the pub to watch the whole shake down. It was ABSOLUTELY PACKED - chock full of sweaty, drunken men. My thongs kept sticking to the floor and every time I was bumped or knocked I'd go flying forward minus my footwear. Was vile. Couldn't get anywhere near the bar and my view of the big screen was obscured by a guy's v structured and towering hair do.

At 10 mins before half time Pondy and I made our escape. The streets were completely deserted - it was like the beginning of 28 Days Later. Sun was blazing but no one was outdoors. The only noise was screaming or cheering as we passed bars. Within 5 mins we were tucked up on our couch in our underoos eating pringles as the drama unfolded on screen. Bliss.

We are well on the way to booking our Turkish hol. We've found a resort, negotiated the price and I'm calling a travel agent today to make our first payment. Hurrah! I first found the resort a week ago. I loved it, but at £2000 p p for 14 days WELL out of our price range. I found it on another site, tweaked the dates and we're now on our way for just £1100 pp. Pondy's mood has picked up considerably now we have a little trip to look forward to.

This is great as he has been mucho moody of late. He worked a full day on Saturday while I went off to a bbq in Truro (I drove, so didn't drink. A revelation for moi...) and when I got back he'd had a snooze and his mood had picked up. We went to another bbq (for a wedding anniversary), then went to our region's only gay club so we could have a boogie. I met a lovely young gay man with a fine pair of norks. We tripped the light fantastic on the dance floor while Pondy stood in the corner nursing his beer. I was appalled as Pondy normally loves to dance. On the way home he informed me that he was 'Tired to his very core'. I, too, was a little weary but couldn't really compete with 'tired to his very core'.

As we arrived home we noticed a young man passed out on the side of the road. I made sure he was still alive (a gentle nudge from my toe while saying 'Are you all right? I'm a first aider!') while Pondy grabbed him a glass of water. He drank it very suspiciously. Then one of his buddies arrived and they limped down the road together.

This week I'm embarking on my Business Writing Course. Hurrah! It's like a week off as I am doing 'school hours' - from 9:30 - 3:30 with an hour for lunch!