Halfling feet and warblers

In the ultimate display of bourgeois fuckery I am blogging (and drinking espresso) while having a pedicure. After nigh on two weeks of not wearing shoes, bare shod rock pool bouldering and beach running, my feet are looking rough. I feel I could march across devil thorns and boiling hot tar and be only mildly inconvenienced.

While I appreciate the practicality in having the environmentally hardened soles of a hobbit, aesthetically it is less than appealing. And so, here I am, surrounded by women getting their French tips done, while Noma (my regular) takes a tool box full of instruments*, salves and lotions to my trotters.

*wait, is that a wood chisel?

I took my daughter to the Bird park earlier (her mother is back at work already). We mozied round in lackadaisical fashion taking in the various avians, but she spent most of her allotted time intrigued by the lemurs.

I liked these hens. I thought they looked wicked, like the sort of fowl that Tim Burton might own. Or the groundskeeper at Bran Castle. Maybe that’s just me though.

We also had brunch there. I left an appropriately themed tip. (Equal parts pretentious and annoying*) The origami one can fold out of a Euro or Rand sized bill are quite limited. USD are longer so you have slightly more options (I think).

*waitrons have to unfurl your stupid design and your notes are so scrunched up and creased that no vending machine will take them (ever again).

Afterwards we browsed books. My poor daughter doesn’t know television exists yet. We’re trying to keep that up for as long as possible. I found this awesome illustrated book on Proust as well as The History of ninjutsu (which didn’t immediately look like bullshit). Both of which I would have bought, only I’d left my credit card at home. C’est la vie. Next time.

Tomorrow is another father-daughter day. We are hitting up a museum that might be deemed inappropriate for a girl child. Caroline Paul would be proud.

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