MY wife and I go into town once a week to wander round the shops. It's about the only exercise I get. There we were, striding along Peel Street after parking the car in the multi-storey when I felt a stone in my shoe.
Amazing things, stones. They are never noticeable when you get dressed and put the shoes on and they never make their presence known whilst walking around the house, making tea and toast. They even remain dormant in the car whilst driving into town.
But once out in public and 100 yards away from your vehicle, the stone decides to flex its muscles and burrow its way beneath your insole.
What I should have done was sit down on the Town Hall steps and sort out the problem straight away but whilst that was a sensible solution I am a bloke and male logic doesn't do sensible. Instead, I limped on trying to scrunch my foot and move the stone sideways or kick the toe of the shoe to dislodge it. All to no avail.
Eventually, I gave up and leaned on one leg while I took off the shoe and gave it a good shake. Why hadn't I done this right at the beginning? I slipped the shoe back on and … the stone was still there. It was in my sock.
Nah-nah nah-nah-nah, it sneered.
How had a stone that felt the size of Ilkley Moor got in my sock?
When we finally got home I finally removed the annoying substance that was so tiny I had to scratch it off with my finger.
Amazing how something so small can be so aggravating.
Mind you, I've been told that before.