Forwards and occasionally sidewards – everyday musings of life

I officially owe Salisbury Reds a public apology. Their timetable at the Pewsey bus stop turned out to be written in plain, clear English—entirely accessible even to someone like me. Furthermore, the automated onboard announcements made it crystal clear precisely where the bus was stopping next. I was obviously just confused and far too wrapped up in my own Marlborough conspiracy theories over the weekend.

For a grand total of £3, I enjoyed a swift, comfortable ride into Marlborough to retrieve the car. To be completely frank, I couldn’t even park the Cayenne in town for three pounds, let alone factor in the cost of fuel—or emergency puncture repairs.

“I’m really not sure how you managed to achieve that,” the bemused tyre fitter admitted, showing me the threaded shank of a heavy bolt protruding from the rubber. “The bolt head must have actually entered the tyre first.”

Not wanting to sound overly boastful about my driving precision, I kept quiet, though I knew full well how I had achieved it: I simply drove over it.

Twenty minutes and £250 later, the tyre was replaced. Thankfully, they didn’t levy a charge for the 48 hours of free parking I’d accidentally commandeered outside their workshop. Following a quick safety check of the remaining three tyres, I was fully mobile once again.

Back home, Karen and I got stuck into our monthly household budget—a task we both routinely procrastinate over, but always find remarkably cathartic once we sit down and do it. We ultimately concluded that, even with the unexpected £250 hit for new rubber, we could still afford to eat for another month.

Crucially, the budget also allocated funds for a new pair of smart shoes. The right-foot torture devices from my Glasgow expedition had already been unceremoniously donated to the local charity shop, waiting to test the resilience of some other poor soul. That reminded me that I ought to pop in to see Debbie, our local chiropodist, to negotiate a finder’s fee for constantly driving new business her way via my discarded footwear.

As I padded around the house in my barefoot shoes later that afternoon, I found myself wondering whether I could secretly slip a pair of these unusually shaped—but blissfully comfortable—shoes into my next formal board meeting.

After all, I essentially spent last week navigating corporate Scotland in my socks. A pair of barefoot shoes would practically be a promotion.