In the sun

I need new shoes. To complete my summer outfit. Accompanied by my personal shopper I went up town to survey the season’s fashion. What has happened to heels? Dismayed, I checked the populace’s footwear out on the pavements. One piece welded soles everywhere. Or trainers. This won’t do.
We hot footed it home, empty handed*, and from nowhere a fabulous afternoon developed to sit out. Almost hot! We booked flights and a hire car for late August. I’ll need those shoes then.
Up town again - the Traverse with "Who Killed my Father" from Edouard Louis’s book - an excellent one man play, to a point. He loathed his monster of a father but later began to realise that he too was a victim. The finale of political anger directed at everyone from Chirac to Macron however sat uneasily and uncomfortably with the deeply personal tone of what had come previously.   

*not entirely true - at the bus stop I came over all hungry. So I ran over to Pret a Manger and grabbed two croissants. £4.60! They’re 80p in Tesco. Bloody French. It’s that Macron, innit.