Scorchio

Sorry about yesterday, it was a slow-blog day. I'm struggling to think if I managed to achieve anything constructive; I probably did, but can't remember. I looked at my dirty dishes for a bit; actually, I'm still looking at them. But they'll keep for another half an hour as I blog and catch my breath.

I braved Magdalen Street for some tins of coconut milk and cheap rice. Magdalen Street has some of the best curry houses in Norwich, some fabulous ethnic grocery shops and one of the worst reputations in the city. After dark it can be quite dodgy as the little brown stains keeping the chewing gum company on the pavements can attest. I visit Miah's, where you buy Indian Basmati rice in 10 kilo bags, not to mention the most amazing selection of exotic spices for not much money. They have pepper sauce from Barbados, tinned bread fruit from Jamaica and tinned pigeon peas.

After I bought my groceries, I grabbed a bus and did a half-circuit on the 25 route. The summer is making it's presence felt in the brown grass and drooping leaves. I'm amazed by the state of undress of some people. Don't get me wrong, I'm not what you'd call prudish. I think the human body in it's natural state is a beautiful thing, whatever the size or shape. But, my grandmother was a good West Indian woman who believed that men did not go without a shirt unless they were digging a hole, and even then a string vest was preferable.

So, I've been on tummy watch today. There were flat ones, hairy ones, bulging ones, ones with shiny rings and sparkly studs. Then I started looking at footwear. I am gobsmacked at the acute discomfort which women endure in the name of fashion. High, high heels with straps you could use to floss your teeth. From afar they look attractive until you notice the slightly swollen ankles and the mis-shapen toes. Give me boring trainers any day, they might not be sexy, but at least I can run for the bus in them.