My Tiny Feet Are Frozen

My feet are cold and so I will be brief.  It is September now and the wind is blowing around my garden under a low grey sky.  It is only natural then that my feet are cold.  I did not think twice about putting on my usual flip flops this morning; during the summer months I choose my flip flops to suit my mood,  my outfit, or both.   I paint my toenails red, or pink, or often paint the red over the pink and vice versa, and keep going like that until I have very tall toenails.

I am sitting in my studio as I write this, thinking and making plans but I keep coming back to how cold my feet are.  Despite the difficulties in concentrating, I have made a wee plan for today and I am going to stick to it stubbornly even though, even though - my feet are cold.  Very cold.

My plan for today is to email three people to say thank you for various lovely things, which I have done.  Then to write the A Graceful Death blog which I have done too.  (www.agracefuldeath.blogspot.com).  Oh, it is pouring with rain now.  When I leave here I will have cold and wet feet. Why do I have to suffer so?

My plan.  Back to my plan.  I have this blog to write and then I am going into the house to tidy, clean, wash and do laundry with Oldest Son who is, I hope, going to let me into his Quarters so that we can make his surroundings a bit more crisp.  If I ever finish the cleaning thing in the house, I will come back in here and paint more of Nushi and more of Rev Rachel Mann.

Rev Rachel Mann has been a bugger to do.  I have wiped the wood clean twice now and am starting again with a completely and utterly different style.  I am going to try to do her in black and white paint, with grey and maybe bright scarlet too.  I think this may be the answer, I have begun it and hope that I can make it work.  It is taking for ever, but I hope I will finish it before Rev Rachel makes it to Archbishop.  

There are goosebumps on my arms now.  What is this coldness?  I have a warm boiler suit on and a long sleeved teeshirt.  I have blue and white spotty flip flops which we have agreed will not keep me warm, but the boiler suit has always kept me warm before.  Maybe I am coming down with something.  Maybe I am fading away.  Unlikely.  I had a dream the other night that I was now officially fat and got a certificate to prove it.  I don't think I am fading away.  Maybe I will be discovered like the poet Chatterton, dead in my garret, my tiny feet as blue as as my flip flops. 

Henry Wallice The Death of Chatterton.  The young starving poet is found dead in his attic.  His feet look fine.

Oh!  I got it wrong! says Puccini, I meant to say, your tiny feet are frozen.

A rather sinister thought is that Socrates felt the effects of Hemlock from the feet upwards. He lost the sensation of his feet first, they became cold.  The rest of his body followed.  I have not taken any hemlock that I know of, I had PG Tips for breakfast, there wasn't any Hemlock in my tea caddy.  I think.

No.  I am not going to die.  I am being dramatic.  I am simply going to go back into the house now and put on my fluffy winter slippers.  I will put all my flip flops into a plastic bag and fling them to the back of my wardrobe as if Finally.  Our relationship over the last few summer months is over. There is no more need of you here.  It is time for boots and fur lined slippers. It is Over, do you hear, Over. 

Whoops!  Time to go and clean the Son's Rooms.  Best foot forward and all that ha ha ha.