Nah, didn't work, did it.
Poor fugly shoes. They have a hard life in my house. The cute shoes are always ganging up on them, flushing their head down the toilet and stealing their dinner money. Peer pressure is a cruel thing isn't it? And the 'in' shoes are merciless. Mean, mean girl shoes!
And as if that wasn't bad enough, I am now doing my best to blame our underwhelming, ahem, intimate life recently on them. They are profoundly unerotic, I think we can agree. They make my legs look like giant lumpen sausages. They make me walk like a duck in wellingtons and fall over even more often than I usually do. They are really, really heinously ugly. They may be combatting my cellulite (debatable), but cellulite is probably preferable, from an erotic standpoint to this footwear.
Might I, conceivably, be being a little unfair? If I am brutally honest the erotic temperature round here is rarely unbearably, electrically scorching. Not only did the CFO and I meet when I was nineteen but I'm a fantastically uptight, repressed English person. Yes, we really exist. It's a reaction against my progressive upbringing I think. Poor, poor CFO. Fifteen years of this. The man deserves an affair. Several, even. With gangs of incredibly nubile twenty year old Swedish girls.
But seriously, how could any relationship keep its spark when I heard myself saying the following as I got ready for bed last night:
"Help! Jesus, help me! My Compeed is stuck to my pop sock! Fuuuuck!"
(This was the best pop sock picture I could find though let me say mine are NOT flesh coloured. I have some limits. I find it unfeasibly amusing.)
Fugly shoes - this is your fault.
Oh, and while we are on the ratings boosting topic of HOT TORTOISE SEX, I have a subscription to Bust magazine. It was a consolation gift from sadly missed Czech colleague, who has gone to New York, leaving me to maintain the Tedium Files on my own. He and his fantastically cool artist wife are off doing cool and amazing things and I am still researching seamless steel tubes. But! They got me this subscription to Bust, hipster magazine for fierce young ladies. It's pretty fantastic and full of ambitious craft projects for me to fuck up, though I don't think I get all of it, since I'm too old and Belgian. But the most recent issue left me in a hysterical heap on the ground with its fantastic female friendly erotic story (or "one handed read" as they called it) about .... a librarian. A guybrarian! Is this, in fact, the erotic fantasy of choice of hot young New York hipsters? Is it? I am even more out of touch than I realised.