Phew.

All this linking and whatnot has me plum pooped out.

As Maud Newton has mentioned, I am involved in something called Punk Rock Soccer, which happens weekly in a park in West Montreal. I am not so punk, but many of the participants are. Last night, on the way to the park where we play, a woman stepped on one of my flip-flops as I was getting off the Metro and broke it in half.

This was tragic. I bought those flip flops two years ago for one pound in Oystermouth, Wales. They were brilliant flip-flops: the words “flip” and “flop” were written along the bits that held my toes. They were blue. After two years of solid use, they had taken the shape of my feet: slipping into those flip-flops was like dipping my feet into a pool of warm milk. And then some careless idiot had to go and ruin everything.

So there I stood on the Metro platform, the left flip-flop fairly torn in two, the other, tragically, still snug on my right foot. As the train pulled out of the station, I picked up the useless flip-flop and hurled it at the car where the woman was now sitting. It smacked off the window and slid down onto the track. The woman looked up. I shook my fist at her, screaming, “What am I going to do now?”, fighting back the tears. Later, the punks would take turns holding me as I wept.

Seriously, though: what am I going to do now?


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