I try my shoes on. I realise immediately that putting my foot fully into them would count as a bad idea.
"It's no good" I say to Dean "I'm going to have to wear my pumps".
Me. Wearing shoes that I can refer to as pumps. Shoes with laces. Shoes that I otherwise reserve for Festival type shenanigans.
"You look like an office worker".
"Yes". I cannot say that the early morning commute with trainers and nice shoes in bag is something that I have been striving for on my day off.
"Do you not have any other shoes?"
"These are the only shoes I can wear - my foot hurts a lot" I say it in such a manner that Dean cannot fail to miss the warning signs of taking this any further.
For since I ended up being spectacularly ill in Leeds two weeks ago my body has decided that it doesn't really like me that much. My digestive system has gone a little bit insane (always pleasant), every afternoon I spontaneously develop a cold which disappears by 7.30pm only to reappear the next afternoon and my back seems to have had a flair up of whatever it was that meant there was a period in April when I couldn't sit anywhere without a cushion. Oh, and I'm sleeping ridiculous amounts.
Which is all without mentioning my hormones which have, quite frankly, gone insane in the last few months. Whatever London puts into its water it is making me both ginger and a hormonal fruitcake. I'm not sure which I'm more distressed about.
So, really my foot deciding that it too wants in on the fun hasn't exactly made my day.
"Is it that bad?"
"Yes - either I've broken my toe without realising it or I'm getting arthritis in my foot".
Because I am not one, after all, to underplay minor-ailments.
Dean smiles. "Look what happens - you move in with me and turn into an old person".
I do not even need to mention that Dean is teaching me to knit or that scouting round London's charity shops has become a favourite pastime of ours in recent weeks.
I should probably get some false teeth and have done with it.