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skyringAt this point I must confess that it had been my original intention to walk the whole way around the board, but the pain in my feet after the previous day’s expedition up to Charing Cross Road has convinced me that for the more scattered of the squares, this is a poor plan. I can walk around the West End in an afternoon, but from Old Kent Road to Whitechapel to King’s Cross Station is going to need artificial assistance.
Blame my boots. I have a pair of Land-Rover boots which are supremely comfortable. Sturdy, stylish and safe, I have to be physically prevented from wearing them on inappropriate occasions. Like church or bed.
But they and I have shared so many journeys, so many steps along the road of life, that I had forgotten that each stride had left a few molecules of rubber behind me. And a few strands of hair, going by the evidence. I had been firmly reminded of this when I stepped out on a snowy Washington sidewalk and simultaneously realised that my brain was in danger of freezing solid from lack of covering, and my feet were trying to slip away from under me.
When I had recovered my wits I examined my sole. Over the years I had worn away everything but a risible fragment of the once-mighty tread that had given my boots a link with their automobile brandsakes. If I were driving these boots, I’d fail a roadworthy test.
Somehow I managed to stay upright during the rest of my Washington trip, but I was getting weary of walking on eggshells and making the occasional wild frantic grab at random passersby.
Of course, once I returned to sunny and dry Canberra, there was no impetus for change. Everything was back to normal once again.
It took a sloping, moss-covered path in the Dunedin Botanic Gardens to convince me that I was on a slippery slide to self-destruction. The resulting green stain to the knee of my trousers, shortly followed by a thankfully small red one, inspired me to seek a retread.
So, the very morning of the day of my departure for London, I collected my boots, a gratifyingly thick layer of tread newly welded into place. I could climb mountains, skip over glaciers, run across oilfields in these.
Unfortunately, a day’s hard walking around the streets of London revealed that, although I was unlikely to fall flat on my bum, it was now my stride rather than my tread that would do me in. The new soles were of a somewhat stiffer composition than the old, and the opposing corners where I rolled onto my heel and launched myself again from my big toe were now square and solid, where they had previously been worn down to the precise contour of my gait.
A day of clumping around, and the resultant pain in my feet, convinced me that I should try to get as much use out of London’s transport system as possible.
So here I was, inside a cherry red single decker bus, aimed squarely at the ornate frame of Tower Bridge.
Blame my boots. I have a pair of Land-Rover boots which are supremely comfortable. Sturdy, stylish and safe, I have to be physically prevented from wearing them on inappropriate occasions. Like church or bed.
But they and I have shared so many journeys, so many steps along the road of life, that I had forgotten that each stride had left a few molecules of rubber behind me. And a few strands of hair, going by the evidence. I had been firmly reminded of this when I stepped out on a snowy Washington sidewalk and simultaneously realised that my brain was in danger of freezing solid from lack of covering, and my feet were trying to slip away from under me.
When I had recovered my wits I examined my sole. Over the years I had worn away everything but a risible fragment of the once-mighty tread that had given my boots a link with their automobile brandsakes. If I were driving these boots, I’d fail a roadworthy test.
Somehow I managed to stay upright during the rest of my Washington trip, but I was getting weary of walking on eggshells and making the occasional wild frantic grab at random passersby.
Of course, once I returned to sunny and dry Canberra, there was no impetus for change. Everything was back to normal once again.
It took a sloping, moss-covered path in the Dunedin Botanic Gardens to convince me that I was on a slippery slide to self-destruction. The resulting green stain to the knee of my trousers, shortly followed by a thankfully small red one, inspired me to seek a retread.
So, the very morning of the day of my departure for London, I collected my boots, a gratifyingly thick layer of tread newly welded into place. I could climb mountains, skip over glaciers, run across oilfields in these.
Unfortunately, a day’s hard walking around the streets of London revealed that, although I was unlikely to fall flat on my bum, it was now my stride rather than my tread that would do me in. The new soles were of a somewhat stiffer composition than the old, and the opposing corners where I rolled onto my heel and launched myself again from my big toe were now square and solid, where they had previously been worn down to the precise contour of my gait.
A day of clumping around, and the resultant pain in my feet, convinced me that I should try to get as much use out of London’s transport system as possible.
So here I was, inside a cherry red single decker bus, aimed squarely at the ornate frame of Tower Bridge.
