We were about halfway down the hill - about 500 yards at a push - before I knew something was seriously wrong. It was the boots. My brand new, just out of the box Visvim Serra hikers were going to kill me if I took another step. They were already killing me - it had been foolhardy to set out in nothing but a thin pair of dress socks between the leather uppers and my tender heels.
But those boots had been burning a hole in my shoe collection for a couple of months. Ever since I nabbed them at a bargain, but still eye-watering, price, they've been sitting atop my wardrobe waiting for some suitaby inclement weather to get an outing. The lack of a suitably stout pair of walking socks wasn't going to ruin their christening.
"I'm not going to make it," I said to Lizzie through gritted teeth."Leave me, and save yourself."
So Lizzie carried on down to the train station as I made the long trek back uphill, wincing with every step, to slip into something more comfortable.
The episode was proof if further were needed that the pain threshold of women is far above that of men. Lizzie also had her new shoes on - a pair of dainty little brogues. No socks, no nothing. After a trip to London which involved us getting lost in Bloomsbury and somehow ending up in Wagamama's in Soho, then tubing over to a pub in Islington before the long trek home, her feet were so raw that they were actually weeping blood. Not a whimper, all night. That's well hard.
Meanwhile, I continue to suffer. My heels are still showing the evidence of the failed outing of the Serra hikers, and even with the thick walking socks I have now invested in, they're still agony to wear some 24 hours on. I have been forced to admit that in contrast to the butter-soft nature of other Visvims, these blighters are going to need a bit of wearing in.
Looks like I'll be needing some lessons in pain control from Lizzie.
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