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This is the day I finally got meself into the centre of Bristol while the shops were open and the pubs were shut. (Well, obviously the boozers were open too, but I have a hangover from last night and a poetic license and I'm not afraid to use either of them.)
The object of my mission? Something I'd been putting off for months: The purchase of a pair of Proper Running Shoes.
So I wander into the Fine Shop to discover it's about the size of our front room, yet packed with people and stuff. Anyway, I gain the attention of an assistant who has me remove my footwear (splendidly cybery Salomon hiking boots. Ideal should a mountain suddenly spring up in the machine room, as the Hacker's Dictionary puts it) and jog across a plate strategically placed in the middle of the shop. Which is still full of people and stuff. I duck and weave my way across the place while giving thanks for the practice gained in avoiding lurching into people while dancing drunkenly on the goth floor at Slimelight. Then I get to do it all again for the other foot. The magic bit of kit which manages to image where all the weight's going as I jog across it looks remarkably like a Musgrave Footprint, only with better tech and code that runs on an iMac. If you've never heard of a(n) M-F, don't worry - you're not alone.
It's quickly apparent that I'm going to need something from the 'Old gimmer, bit dodgy on 'is plates' range. Shoes are found, and assistant and I thread our way to the (steep) road outside the shop, where I am asked to jog 'reasonably quickly' back and forth up the (steep) pavement so my running action can be viewed with a critical eye.
"Hmm" she says "I think you're going to need something with a little more support..."
Six pairs later, I am close to expiry. But I have some shoes which at least make a valiant attempt at keeping my bizarre gait in some sort of reasonable order.
My next trick - making it round the course that surrounds the grounds at work without needing oxygen or the NHS...
The object of my mission? Something I'd been putting off for months: The purchase of a pair of Proper Running Shoes.
So I wander into the Fine Shop to discover it's about the size of our front room, yet packed with people and stuff. Anyway, I gain the attention of an assistant who has me remove my footwear (splendidly cybery Salomon hiking boots. Ideal should a mountain suddenly spring up in the machine room, as the Hacker's Dictionary puts it) and jog across a plate strategically placed in the middle of the shop. Which is still full of people and stuff. I duck and weave my way across the place while giving thanks for the practice gained in avoiding lurching into people while dancing drunkenly on the goth floor at Slimelight. Then I get to do it all again for the other foot. The magic bit of kit which manages to image where all the weight's going as I jog across it looks remarkably like a Musgrave Footprint, only with better tech and code that runs on an iMac. If you've never heard of a(n) M-F, don't worry - you're not alone.
It's quickly apparent that I'm going to need something from the 'Old gimmer, bit dodgy on 'is plates' range. Shoes are found, and assistant and I thread our way to the (steep) road outside the shop, where I am asked to jog 'reasonably quickly' back and forth up the (steep) pavement so my running action can be viewed with a critical eye.
"Hmm" she says "I think you're going to need something with a little more support..."
Six pairs later, I am close to expiry. But I have some shoes which at least make a valiant attempt at keeping my bizarre gait in some sort of reasonable order.
My next trick - making it round the course that surrounds the grounds at work without needing oxygen or the NHS...
