Gods and shoes

And there go the Gods again. As soon as I start speculating about things related to the damn sex, they're at it again. So I decided to be a good housewife and do the washing up that's been piling up. Big mistake. And a surreal one too. Has anybody out there washed a mug only for it to suddenly smash to pieces in your hand? And no I didn't smash it against anything, it just exploded. So I was talking about veggies and slicing and dicing, and the Gods have decided that I need to learn a lesson. Hence I now have a sliced and diced hand, perfect for tomorrow when I have a performance. It's going to be an Elastoplastered pianist. But of course as long as I can still play I can still type. If I managed to play through a whole concert just hours after having my hand stitched up, then this is child's play. I dare the Gods... go on, try harder, there is a tough girl underneath the silly, couldn't be bothered aura. It's not that I'm not bothered about most things. I am just not bothered with plastering myself with makeup at the unearthly hour of 8 in the morning that's all. I am bothered about my work, well bothered isn't even the word, I just try my best that's all. But my best is still my best whether it's delivered through sweat pants and joggers or in high heels. I'm old, I don't have the energy for high heels during the day. High heels were never meant for daytime anyway. High heels scream sexy Lolita, and I am no Lolita, never have been, never will be. I know exactly what I am talking about. I am the shoe guru here, I have more than 500 pairs of shoes. I actually have a shoe room. So, girl, don't you even try flashing your heels at me, because that won't impress me. I have hundreds at home. Now perhaps the Gods will attack my shoes next...