Lager and chocolate. The stuff of dreams. Only because I haven’t figured out lager and pies yet. Or wodka and pies.
Smell: Luckily my socks smell of boot, and my feet smell of sock. Which smells of boot. Which still smells of leather. Not sure how long the dead cow aroma will mask the regular smell of feet trapped in the same boot for weeks at a time.
Blisters: in the region of three, unless the major blisters merge into a huge landmass. Blister techtonics in action.
Sink Plugs: two
Saw Le Corsaire at this flash ballet house, where everyone else wasn’t wearing boots or combat trousers. Sod all the faffing about phoning ticket agencies, just march up to the door just before it opens and accept an invitation from the first tout whose patter matches the belief you have about russian and foreigner tickets. Managed to get in to a pretty bonza seat. And in no time the international language of waving your arms and attempting to mend the camera of the person next to me had a conversation struck up. I was going to keep quiet but then I thought what would such famous engineers As Scott H.R. Crawley and David Element Farmer do in such a situation? So vaulting out of the box and producing such tools and resources as I could muster, my Russian neighbour and I set about the unrepentant Pentax.
A few flashes and a hearty bar of chocolate later, the camera was still struggling, but the general consensus was that we had given it our best shot. Oh and there were some skinny folk spinning around on stage too. It was like there were a few superstars who would do mind boggling numbers of turns on one toe, while there was a majority of fluffers who just filled in colour and general shape shifting duties in the background. Which was nice. As was the synchronised / rhythmic clapping at the end. Oh and it had a character called Gulnara in it.