After all these remarks about old boots, I thought I'd show one of the perks of old bootdom (old boothood?) with a pic of these rather gorgeous flowers which came at lunchtime for Moi, materfamilias, Magna Mater (trying to become less magna but failing - especially as the flowers were accompanied by fabby chocolates). There was also a card positively exhorting me to eat chocolate; my offspring clearly don't give a fig for my increasing dimensions.
In connection with the above, I did a foolish thing last week and succumbed to a half-price offer from Amazon of ...Weight Watcher scales. Happily, in view of the chocolate, they are a contraption of such baffling complexity that to use them, as recommended, first thing in the morning is out of the question. For a start, you have to program in your user number and code (this presumably to stop Mr B finding out my grim secrets), then push the scale gently in the centre, then leap on before it changes its mind and returns you to the clock. And then - wait for it - if your feet are too dry, dear reader, it says triumphantly "error" - or rather "err" - and back you go to the clock again. So you need to have lightly moisturised (or slightly sweaty) feet or the gemme's a bogey. But I'm not about to become fixated on my weight with all that hoo-hah each time, and that's for sure.
And just for Neil: I've uploaded the pic in such a way to allow for text-wrap. See thae purists?