Waterstones promises eternal life - maybe.

Check out the small print

Book shops are pretty much my favourite thing, particularly those of the independent variety. I live in a town that is oddly lacking in this respect but I doff my cap to the local Waterstones. Displaced by a Waitrose redevelopment, it finds itself literally in the shadow of the town library, but continues to lure in the punters thanks not only to its book range but to friendly, knowledgeable staff who know and clearly love their books. 

There are signs of entrepreneurial endeavour, too. If you look closely at this sign, you'll see that, in addition to books, they claim to sell cards, wrapping paper, stamps, and even eternal life. That's my kind of shop.

Look after your feet - you can't get anywhere fast without them

Faced - 'footed'? - with a couple of stubborn veruccas (ever the Ulster women, even my afflictions are stubborn), I told my cheery chiropodist to throw everything she had at them. Her grin should have been a warning sign.

This morning, a day after the latest 'freezing', I headed off to the station, en route to a French grammar workshop - yes, I know .... But in a bit of a d'oh! moment I realised that I was in pain and hobbling, and moving at half my usual stomping speed. Result? Two trains missed, and the workshop  - its places like gold dust - abandoned, by this scholar at least.

So here I am, back at my desk, full of paracetamol and pondering my feet. They still hurt and I am realising how little thought I give them when they aren't throbbing. I scuff around in Converse, flop in Havaianas and shuffle in ballet pumps. All without giving my poor tootsies a second thought.

No more! Never mind religious zealots, I will become a foot zealot - not in a kinky way, I hasten to add. It will be scrubs and buffing all the way now. And glittery gold treats like these will be just that, treats.

Feet - welcome to the world of special treatment.

An early visitor

At Dorking Deepdene station on Wednesday, I spent a happy few minutes watching a pudgy little robin basking in a sunny corner of the rather tatty shelter. Clearly used to people, he hopped closer and closer, driven away only the vibrations of the arriving train.

Kind of Blue - the great Miles Davis

It's astonishing how music can lighten the mood. Here was I, knackered, disillusioned and sore of foot and back - and all it took to sort me out was a spot of the incomparable Miles Davis. Kind of Blue, to be precise - the album that introduced me to him, more years ago than I care to remember. And I never forget how privileged I was to hear him live.

Small bottles of wine - why are they so vile?

When it comes to drinking, I am very much of the 'quality over quantity' school - these days, at any rate. And as the only white wine drinker in the house, if I buy a bottle of decent vino (Gruner Veltliner being my tipple of choice) it rarely gets finished, tending instead to get chucked out at the end of the week.

So in the Guildford M&S today - a relatively large branch - I decided to treat myself to a small bottle of something white and easy on the palette. At first glance it looked as if they had a fairly comprehensive range. Not so. Despite not being a fan of Chardonnay (scarred for life by Footballers' Wives, perhaps), that's what I ended up with. And as soon as I opened it, I knew it would end in tears.

Why, why, why, particularly when the government is always banging on about people in the UK drinking too much, can't they make it easier for us to drink less but better? Surely it's not too much to ask?

Swimming caps - old school glamour

Just back from a few days visiting my brother in San Sebastian, and noticing that most of my photos are of shop windows. I'm not a huge fan of shopping, but I love colour and appreciate good layout. Whoever thought a rubber swimming cap could look so glamorous?

Why is crapness ok?

That title makes this sound like the start of a Carrie Bradshaw stream of consciousness, but it isn't - I promise.

But what really pi**es me off about this country - and I realise it's at least as bad in plenty of other countries, not least my own - crapness seems to be acceptable.

Thanks to some mysterious 'signal failure' (aka 'feeble excuse no 795') today, what would normally have involved a 20 minute train journey (from Guildford to Dorking) took the best part of three hours, via Clapham Junction. At no point did any staff brave the platform and risk the ire - or even the polite questioning - of the small band of weary would-be travellers. No, they hid in their office and cowered behind the tannoy. But, to be fair, the LED screen did say 'sorry' ... That make it all ok, then.