Mushy Feet

My feet are mush – mush, I tell you.  Thank God I have that foot spa.  Had an absolutely fantastic night out with my partner-in-dancing, the ever-fabulous Paula.  Blagged our way into The Bridge Bar in Beckenham – saw a few old faces, said hi, then hit the dance floor and didn’t stop til it shut.  Laughed like drains and were generally extremely juvenile.  When we eventually reached the pavement at 2.30am, though, the pain kicked in bigtime.  Funny how that happens.  On the dance floor, it’s like, ‘pain, what pain?  Dance, bitch!’, but once the music stops, you suddenly need a foot transplant.
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