Something Afoot

Banana; a raspberry bun; boiled egg on toast;
doppelgänger shreddies (the astute amongst you
 will notice a breakfast is missing;
it was a fishcake with a poached egg & hollandaise

Either shoes are getting bigger, or my feet are getting smaller. Time was, I was a dependable size 6. These days, a 6 is like wearing a pair of clown shoes, and a 5 is just that little bit too small -- length-wise at least. (Britons, by and large seem to be a spade-footed, short-legged species, and I've yet to find a pair of shoes that didn't slop off my heels, and a pair of trousers that didn't need letting down.)

It's an odd position to find myself in: almost-dainty-footed-ness. I've always thought of my feet as somewhat flipper like. Perhaps because growing up my father always told me I had hands like feet and feet like fenders, oh and tombstones rather than teeth. I've long considered my extremities rather outsized for my height -- all legs and arms and fingers and toes and not a great deal of torso -- or head, as it happens (I once borrowed a five-year-old cousin's bicycle helmet; I was not five at the time. More like 25.).

I feel like I've wandered into an odd kind of a fairy tale, and I can't yet tell if I'm the heroine, or just a vanishing-footed curiosity along the way...