11th Feb - Socks are EVIL



I'm an idiot. I recently succumbed to the charms of Primark's new NBA range, treating myself to a new pair of sliders. Here's where you judge me... (if you didn't already, based on that opening gambit). I, basically, have a sort of... fear... of socks. I despise them. The warm suffocation, the feel of the hot cloth between the toes, I've constantly paraded around the home with bare feet like a portly Mowgli. Thus, leaving the house can prove somewhat problematic to me, as I'm forced to pull on the restricting condoms of the foot world, as foreplay to the sneaker. 

That is, or was, until sliders overtook crocs as the most delightfully comfortable yet horrific aesthetic fashion choice. I personally, wear mine everywhere. I've grinned a smile of smug satisfaction when observing office colleagues recoil in horror over the smell of warmly baked mini cheddars wafting up from beneath the shin following a heatwave ride across the Bakerloo Line. I've chuckled as my disgraced other half bites her tongue when watching me slip them on for a weekly gallivant round ALDI, alongside all the 'real adults' in their leather brogues, and suede boat shoes. 




But hence is my reliance on the slider, AKA the thinking man's flip-flop, that I tend to exhaust them faster than Katie Price gets through pair after pair of milky knickers. My latest purchase was designed to ease the pressure on 'my old faves', the warm fuzzy contentedness of the Adidas Adilette. What I failed to realise, was that taking these Primani specials for a spin during the routine of my daily 1-hour walk was to prove ill-fated, as the cheap material of the 'made in China' specials started to tear blistering holes into both my big toes. Through each squirt of blood, like a scene from a SAW movie, I ambled back towards the house, my shrieks filling the pavements across the mean streets of Oxfordshire. 

At least, in more positive news, it's Friday, the sun is shining like a baby-oil coated mammary, and I'm off to bottomless brunch tomorrow to get absolutely James Ward-Prowse'd on curried goat. I'm not sure what I plan to wear to said brunchington yet, maybe I'll turn up in a wheelchair to ease the burden on my aching gash (steady!)... But one thing's for sure...




... I won't be wearing socks. Because socks are evil.



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