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hungover feet
Monday, 26 September 2005 09:07 amWell, we're back... the event is over, the car unloaded, the living room only mostly piled with the detritus of the weekend. The house didn't burn down in our absence, and the cats have mostly forgiven us and are being pre-emptively hyper-affectionate in case we're thinking of going away again.
The event went well, I think; apart from the unscheduled semi-space-sharing with hitherto unsuspected Heritage Day activities, things were fairly smooth. However, we have a new project afoot, which is to collect possible smart-arse replies to the question "Why are you dressed like that?" My favourite so far: "These are hand-me-downs, they've been in my family since 1395. We can't afford new clothes but we take good care of our stuff."
New evidence suggests, however, that it would have been simpler and less stressful just to do all the cooking myself, rather than playing second-in-command to co-ordinating the efforts of 6 different cooks, with my notional boss not actually being active at the event (for good and sufficient reason, viz. new-born baby). This kind of position plays merry hell with my fascist, control-freak tendencies because you very soon reach a point where you simply have to trust that the relevant people will perform their designated tasks. (Which of course they did, since they're all good and efficient cooks, but I worry anyway. Call it a Valuable Life Lesson.) At any rate, I'm exhausted, drained and aching all over just as much as if I'd been in the kitchen all weekend.
I also have a new term for post-cooking physical trauma. After a day in the kitchen, one's feet ache horribly at the end of the day; mine are often swollen and puffy. But when you wake up the next morning, they're not actually sore, other than a tiny interior ache; but they feel sort of post-sore, still pale and puffy and a bit yellow around the edges. I have hungover feet.
The event went well, I think; apart from the unscheduled semi-space-sharing with hitherto unsuspected Heritage Day activities, things were fairly smooth. However, we have a new project afoot, which is to collect possible smart-arse replies to the question "Why are you dressed like that?" My favourite so far: "These are hand-me-downs, they've been in my family since 1395. We can't afford new clothes but we take good care of our stuff."
New evidence suggests, however, that it would have been simpler and less stressful just to do all the cooking myself, rather than playing second-in-command to co-ordinating the efforts of 6 different cooks, with my notional boss not actually being active at the event (for good and sufficient reason, viz. new-born baby). This kind of position plays merry hell with my fascist, control-freak tendencies because you very soon reach a point where you simply have to trust that the relevant people will perform their designated tasks. (Which of course they did, since they're all good and efficient cooks, but I worry anyway. Call it a Valuable Life Lesson.) At any rate, I'm exhausted, drained and aching all over just as much as if I'd been in the kitchen all weekend.
I also have a new term for post-cooking physical trauma. After a day in the kitchen, one's feet ache horribly at the end of the day; mine are often swollen and puffy. But when you wake up the next morning, they're not actually sore, other than a tiny interior ache; but they feel sort of post-sore, still pale and puffy and a bit yellow around the edges. I have hungover feet.
