Silly socks

Last night my Special Lady Friend and I were sitting on the step outside. I was stretching my toes, just freed from the stupid girly shoes I wear for work. We’d just opened a bottle of Rioja; Pancho the cat was waging a trench* war against Sid the neighbour’s moggy (we call him Sid because he’s vicious), life was good. Yes. Then, seemingly out of the blue:

You have goose bumps! I exclaimed.
I do, she smiled.
How come?
Well.. football. The world cup is starting on Thursday.

I thought I was the one giving her goose bumps, but seemingly I have competition in a bunch of men wearing shorts and silly socks. The next five weeks are going to be interesting. I cannot abide football, you see. It’s not a point of contention between us as long as she doesn’t wear loud nylon shirts or display flags. Flags! They’re on my list of obsolete horrors right after army uniforms. I reckon they should do away with national teams anyway, and call them after animals. The Weasels against the Silver-haired rabbits. Or is that specie-ist? Specist? Or foodstuffs. The Crispy Waffles against the Broiled Cutlets. Although of course vegetarians would have little choice as to whom they’d support, so that’s silly. I’d rather watch Mexican Lucha Libre any day, mostly because they have fan-ta-stic costumes. Football. Can’t stand it. Possibly because as a child I had to spent too many of my Sunday afternoons on a football pitch – well, outside of it really- because my brother/dad/uncles/dad’s mates were playing. I can’t even pretend to care. I do hope England will lose, and soon, and spontaneous combustion of the French team would probably make me merry.
So, yes, competition.
Luckily, I have ways of competing, and of provoking lots of goose bumps.




*a hole was dug for two rosebushes that still haven’t arrived. It’s currently being used as a trench/toilet.