No, no, please don't laugh, I'm serious.
I've inherited a genetic trait from my Dad that has an odd effect.
There's a part of my anatomy which has a rather peculiar shape compared to the norm, and is also quite a lot bigger than the average.
|Oh My God, it's so big!|
Now before you collapse in sheer shock, please be assured that I will never write anything that is completely disgusting (apart from Tales Of the Ringed One) so you can read on with confidence.
I'm now on the third day of our much-needed holiday from Nuova Lazio High School, and I'm afraid I've been rather busy. Too busy to do much blogging at all, and it's all because of my genetic oddity.
My Beloved (I've returned her to capitalization for services received) has been teaching me things. Hidden secrets all related to my genetic oddity.
Some of these skills are passed down from Mother to Daughter, and I've never been introduced to them before, so it was all a bit shocking, and it's all to do with...socks.
On Saturday morning I mentioned to my Beloved that all of my thick woolen socks had holes in the toes, and I asked her to darn them for me.
After she had stopped laughing she explained that she didn't do darning anymore, but would be happy to teach me if I felt so strongly about the matter.
I agreed to accept the instruction because I had at least 6 pairs of lovely warm socks, essential to survival in chilly Nuova Lazio, with holes in the toes, and I was a Scot, and I wasn't prepared to throw away things that were 98% OK, just because of a few holes.
The reason I had so many holes was related to the genetic oddity. My big toes are extra long, with hardened toenails that I would bet would cut through glass.
So I learned the esoteric and secret art of Darning Socks.
Nothing to it, so I am now in possession of 6 pairs of functional socks again.
I had just taken the photos for this post when I noticed that my dressing gown had fallen from the peg behind the bathroom door. As I picked it up to put it back, I noticed that there was something else hanging on the peg.
It was black.
It was flimsy.
It had sequins on it.
Dear God, was this some piece of feminine attire that my Beloved had left as some sort of signal the "Special Services" would be required?
I broke out in a cold sweat.
My hands began to shake in both fear and anticipation, so I was extremely releaved to discover that on further examination the black sequined thing turned out to be: