On feet, and the worship thereof

So half an hour ago, the world was a terrible place. Oh woe, cried I, woe and thrice woe! I was exhausted, having spent three times as long as normal coming home from school because I had to skate up an iced-over footpath for several klicks. This meant my afternoon was effectively non-existent, and I only had time to go to a cash point, discover that my account has been blocked (AGAIN), and then get to the bank 3 minutes after closing. And let's not even mention the housemates (male) who apparently think that the dishwasher is loaded and unloaded by a pixie who lives in the still-not-replaced-lightbulb in the kitchen. (Whoops - too late!)

But then - ah, then! - I washed my feet. It's such a small thing, but somehow washing your feet in soap and hot water, massaging in some scavenged remnants of body lotion and following this with a newly clean pair of socks makes the world brighter. Suddenly, I'm drinking a cup of tea and remembering all the good things that happened today: the brilliant lesson with the 4th before lunch, signing on to a distance-learning course on the history of the English Country House, and (weirdly) waking up BEFORE my alarm clock went off this morning. (Does anyone else love doing that? I just hate the jolting-awake-panic-what-is-being-killed reaction I get when the alarm goes off. I feel it is the legacy of early morning fire drills/alarms at boarding school.)

The contents of my shopping basket today: bread, milk, two tomatoes and a cabbage. I won't tell you how excited I was at how much cabbage you can get for €1,49.