dug 
So I’m contracting at a place that requires a bit more polish in the old dress code than I’m used to, so I’ve been dusting off my lovely old leather shoes. I’ve got a gorgeous pair of French ones that still look great but have a hole in the sole (soul) and getting them fixed requires sending them back to France (the soles are tripple-welt and the taps are forged and seamlessly fitted with steel screws–these are some very serious items of footware).
Anyway, in an effort to make those ones last a few more months, I dusted off a lovely pair i picked up at Church’s a few years ago. They were still like new and I seemed to remember that they didn’t fit terribly well and never really wore them in. So to cut a long story short, I brazenly wore the damn things last Thursday (the day I became 42 years old) and by the end of the day, both my ankles were raw flesh and my socks were filled with blood (which may have explained why I couldn’t keep my mind on the gig I was at that evening).
Since then, I’ve compounded the problem. I have to wear formal shoes to work, so even with two plasters on each ankle it’s agony. My bloody commute includes about 45 minutes of brisk walking and a further 30 of standing still (tube). The picture above was taken a few days into this process, my ankles are swelling up like I’m pregnant and parts of my calf are developing welts, scarring and bruising. I just cannot believe a pair of shoes could do so much damage.
So today i’ve instituted a one-man dress-down Friday and am walking to the bank in my Birkenstocks:-)