I put on my Birkenstock shoes, and my Birkenstock fleece jacket. I strapped on my cell phone, and went to Bread & Circus to get some food. I had a really healthy lunch involving tofu.
I sat and looked around the eat-in area, and saw Cambridge parents with their children. I wondered how many of the children were desperately wishing they were a few doors down at McDonalds.
In case anyone’s slightly interested, my new Birkenstocks are Richmond in Cordura. I think I’m going to have to order a second pair and stash them away.
See, when I listened to the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy radio series season 2, I didn’t feel that the whole Dolmansaxlil sub-plot was excessive at all. Like Douglas Adams, I had had the experience of walking the length of Oxford Street, visiting every wretched shoe shop, in the futile hope that one of them might have a pair that would actually fit my feet.
The strange thing is, I knew so many people in England with the same problem. Go to America, they’d say. Or Germany. You can get shoes that actually fit your feet there. Only in England could an entire industry ignore the fairly basic requirements of its customers.
Which is not to say that it’s easy to find shoes that fit in America; however, it’s possible. Whereas I only once recall finding well-fitting shoes that didn’t need insoles in the UK.
God, what a pointless and trivial journal entry.