I’m trying to rid my feet of the dreaded, but little known, Zebra Feet Syndrome. It is caused by the excessive wearing of Jesus boots, or sandals, as they’re better known. You can see my efforts are beginning to bear fruit with the blossoming of lurid pink strips where there was once the lurid stripe of pale, white flesh.
Still, it could be worse. I’ve vowed not to venture out today, although if this pressure cooker heatwave persists, I could make a sortie to the off license to replenish my diminishing stock of cold beer.
Meanwhile, the reading goes on. Having just finished John McEntee’s hilarious I’m Not One to Gossip, But…and Tanya Cliff’s Tales of the Valderan: The Prodigal Son. I’ve started reading The Journal of Bram Stoker, drawn from the manuscript of the Irishman’s personal diary, found ten years ago in the Isle of Man attic of his great grandson. I’m also toying with a return to James Lee Burke’s Cadillac Jukebox or Darrell Figgis’s short history of Irish dramatist, artist and poet, AE Russell. Those are the paperbacks, I’ve also got Kent Wayne’s Echo: Volume I and PS Bartlett and Ronovan Hester’s Amber Wake on my Kindle. I’m spoiled for choice.