Summer!

Sunshine, lying on the grass in parks reading trashy fiction, lazy evenings drinking gin and tonics outside in the fading light. And blisters. Don't forget the blisters.

Is there anything more torturous to the female foot than the seemingly innocuous Summer sandal? (And don't start writing in with mention of Birkenstocks. I can't wear them; my second toe is freakishly longer than my big toe, a sign (a) of leadership qualities, according to the Romans, but (b) of not being able to wear curve-toed molded-sole sandals.) Of course it is logical that repeatedly rubbing leather straps against winter-sock-softened virgin foot skin would cause rawness, tears (of both kinds) and welts (hmm - sorry for coming over all Fetish and the Art of the Teese there), so yes, it's my own fault for wearing sandals, but this is the real world. A world where appearances count. I can't wear winter shoes with my floaty Summer skirts and I can't, can't, will not and won't wear socks and sandals. I would be an outcast, reduced to eating muesli out of folded up copies of the Guardian and muttering about sustainable transport policy on train station platforms. So I am forced by SOCIETY to wear sandals on my bare feet, and it is causing me pain. Ripped flesh. Bleeding. It is insufferable. And yet I suffer. My question is this: how come I am allowed to get hayfever remedies on the NHS and not blister plasters? I know which causes me more actual agony through the Summer months, and I speak as a relatively severe hayfever sufferer. Why do I pay tax and then have to buy plasters? What kind of a world is this?

Sorry, is that the sound of gentle bemusement I hear? Why exactly am I moaning about this on the bookshop blog? What does it have to do with books? Well, it's because I have to spend so much of the day standing up. Serving you, the public. Surely therefore a slice of the public purse should go towards my feet's alleviation? You know it makes sense. Oh, and also because today Adam is wearing super-smug-me trainers. NOT FAIR.