2004-07-17

Where�s a philosopher when you need one? I need someone to give me answers to the serious questions in life, like why, OH WHY, can women�s shoes NEVER be comfortable right off the bat? Is the women�s shoe industry run by a shadowy, fetishistic Chinese foot-binding cartel? Why must I suffer so?

Yesterday I wore a new pair of shoes to work an eight-hour shift on my feet, because I am a big fat stupid. I�m not completely irretrievably retarded, however: I did arm myself with a trousseau of moleskin and Band-aids, which I applied periodically to my feet throughout my shift, until I looked, from the ankles down, like I�d wandered off the set of The Mummy Returns (With Our Pints!). Today I feel like I�ve been wading in a paddling pool filled with piranhas.

Also, why is it so fantastically, ridiculously, �answer-me-these-questions-three�, impossibly hard to get a bank account in this country? After displaying my stack of legitimate identification and uncashed cheques from the Canadian government, I have been looked upon by bank personnel as though I�d just asked them if they could spare a kidney, rather than asking them, as I did, to TAKE MY MONEY and then charge me to access it. Please, evil banks, may I give you my money? I�m begging now! Just take it! But no. The quest continues, and I have no way to cash my paycheques, which is putting a serious crimp in my continental travel plans, and my life in general.

However, on a less �hating the world� note, I have managed to procure a coach ticket to London, return, for eight pounds. That is brilliant in no small measure. Although I half suspect that at that price, I�ll perhaps arrive at the coach station to find an actual coach, drawn by a single cataleptic donkey. But as long as it gets me to London and doesn�t give me fleas, I will not complain.