Time for some colourful shoes
My right foot has been a bit sore all morning but the other one is fine. I've just realised that it's not some new one-sided malaise, from sleeping strangely or crossing my legs more one way than the other. I don't even have gout.
When I looked down, I realised that my left foot is wearing the brand new flatsoled Wittner moccasin-y type thing I bought to replace the hideously uncomfortable because oddly stitched flatsoled Jane Debster moccasin-y type things I've been meaning to throw away because one of then has started to fall apart already and they'll never feel right as demonstrated by how sore my right foot is today after four hours encased in one.
When you have a cupboard full of black shoes, occasionally you get it wrong. The odds increase when you follow almost autistic shopping patterns developed from years of learing what shoes are likely to be comfortable eventually. I have black flat shoes. I have black shoes with heels of two inches and three inches. And some boots. Generally, when I get muddled, it's only between shoes of the same height but to avoid confusion in the future, my next pair of shoes will be purple and I'll just have to get a new wardrobe to match them. After all, I've got the job now.
In other news, the day before Christmas, I finished reading The Dream of Scipio by Iain Pears because someone lent it to me. This isn't the cover of the edition I read but I like it better.
The book is set in Provence with three narratives, in the sixth, fourteenth and twentieth centuries. Three men of philosophical turns of mind are confronted with moral dilemmas about how to deal with the persecution of the Jews.
The twentieth century strand deals with the Nazi occupation of France. It was probably a bit soon after reading the much superior Suite Francaise to be reading this because the same basic material is handled here in a much more sentimental, almost mawkish, way. The book also relies on picking up echoes of similar emotions and thoughts in each story and the parallels seem a bit too neat. But it's more a novel of ideas than of character and narrative. And those ideas are very much philosophy lite or Neoplatonism for beginners, which isn't a bad thing at all. And it was so sad that I would have been very upset if Santa hadn't been coming in the morning.
When I looked down, I realised that my left foot is wearing the brand new flatsoled Wittner moccasin-y type thing I bought to replace the hideously uncomfortable because oddly stitched flatsoled Jane Debster moccasin-y type things I've been meaning to throw away because one of then has started to fall apart already and they'll never feel right as demonstrated by how sore my right foot is today after four hours encased in one.
When you have a cupboard full of black shoes, occasionally you get it wrong. The odds increase when you follow almost autistic shopping patterns developed from years of learing what shoes are likely to be comfortable eventually. I have black flat shoes. I have black shoes with heels of two inches and three inches. And some boots. Generally, when I get muddled, it's only between shoes of the same height but to avoid confusion in the future, my next pair of shoes will be purple and I'll just have to get a new wardrobe to match them. After all, I've got the job now.
In other news, the day before Christmas, I finished reading The Dream of Scipio by Iain Pears because someone lent it to me. This isn't the cover of the edition I read but I like it better.
The book is set in Provence with three narratives, in the sixth, fourteenth and twentieth centuries. Three men of philosophical turns of mind are confronted with moral dilemmas about how to deal with the persecution of the Jews.
The twentieth century strand deals with the Nazi occupation of France. It was probably a bit soon after reading the much superior Suite Francaise to be reading this because the same basic material is handled here in a much more sentimental, almost mawkish, way. The book also relies on picking up echoes of similar emotions and thoughts in each story and the parallels seem a bit too neat. But it's more a novel of ideas than of character and narrative. And those ideas are very much philosophy lite or Neoplatonism for beginners, which isn't a bad thing at all. And it was so sad that I would have been very upset if Santa hadn't been coming in the morning.
posted by Mary Bennet | 1:56 pm
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home