Blues-Beating Boots

I wore my new patent leather, Mrs Peele-inspired boots today, in a light drizzle, complete with trenchcoat. I made friends! WOMAN friends, nogal (Google that). An attractive blonde Englishwoman at the butcher's where I was buying baby backribs - first she spotted my old diamond ring, then commented on the boots and from there we went into her grandmother's disastrous marriage to an Englishman (the engagement ring looked just like my ring) who had to flee to South Africa to save his reputation, was so horrid to her that his family paid her passage back to England AND paid for her next wedding. I am kicking myself that I didn't give this blonde lady my card so that we could continue the conversation...her husband worked in Johannesburg for years and she loved my boots. The second friend was at Sahadi's where I was buying Taramasalata, which I've just consumed on crackers, with a nip of Grey Goose, and she (young, pretty and black, wearing Pumas) left with directions to the boot shop.

I thought the boots might scream hooker, but apparently they scream something else.

They were a welcome and unexpected antidote to looming terrace-destruction and the stress/excitement now associated with the employment of both an accountant and an immigration-lawyer to help me and Vince live in the same place without being shipped to Guantanamo. No, you're right, that's not funny. It's just I have never in my life hired such professionals and it feels very...odd.