Posting and commenting looks set to be a tad on the sporadic side for the next week, as I move house (we're moving out on Friday and as yet have no idea where I'm going. Anyone have a luxury villa somewhere hot and some friends they'd like to lend me if I promise to be nice and charming and engaging?). I'll finish the Dartmoor tales another time- next week, I promise, but I was right; I did lose my job.

Yay!

Right now though, I have to pose a question that's been bothering me for, ooh, about a three hours now.

Scars.

When I'm tallying the number of scars on my body, I always leave out a certain set- the ones on my feet.
My penchant for high heels and also slatternly lack of ownership of any flat shoes apart from flip-flops means my feet are like the walking wounded.
I don't heal cuts very well at the best of times- absolutely everything scars; I have little white marks on my arms from enthusiastically itched midge bites, and a couple of cigarette burns, which are, I guess, slightly more excusable scars.

But my feet!
There's quite a list, from the marks working their way right the way round my very lower leg- still in the red stage, but I'm living in fear they'll also scar eventually- from a nasty cheap pair of wedges, to the gash between my big toe and its neighbour is still healing after a spot of over-enthusiastic walking in flip-flops. My cute pink shoes have this nasty thing where they curve inwards at the top at the back, causing mucho blisters and general pain, and my boots have been known to give my those lovely blisters one gets, on the bottom of my feet.

Ouch indeed.

So, I spent today sprawled out in a carefully arranged heap in the park- at perfect shoe level, you'll notice- and I didn't see a single female without these marks of distinction.

Can you prove me wrong?

My inner feminist tellls me this is bad. Bad bad bad.

But.

Shoes are just so pretty! Worth every moment.