Feet

I’ve been looking through the photographs I took during our time in Germany for about an hour now. A minute ago, I stopped at this one, taken on the drive back.

Picture credit: Britta Benson

This is what you’re looking at: My son’s feet.

You may be wondering why on earth I am showing you a picture of my son’s feet. There is, as always, a very good reason for my choice of illustration.

I took the photograph a good four hours or five hours into our return journey from Dover to Glasgow on Sunday. I think we were somewhere in Yorkshire. We needed a stop to rest tired eyes and stretch seized up muscles. I remember walking a few metres towards the gate of a fence leading to farmland, then, I turned round and stared at our car. My son’s feet greeted me. He had decided that they needed an airing and that he needed a wee lie down, so he improvised a suitable resting place.

Looking at the picture today, I think I’m in pretty much the same state. My feet may be ever so slightly fresher than my teenage boy’s size 11 tooties. I am, however, feeling more than just a bit groggy. The time spent with my dad, as per usual very emotional. We don’t know how many goodbyes we’ll still be going through. The number is certainly declining quite rapidly.

The two weeks with my dad, not a holiday.

As much as I love going to Germany to see him, upon my return I always need to take it easy. My job for today, therefore, is to clear as many non essential entries from my diary as I possibly can. I might have to be ruthless.

And of course, just as I am getting ready to cull ‘optional’ appointments, my phone keeps ringing. Paid juggling work that I cannot refuse. At least none of the new jobs are taking place this week.

I will put my feet up today as best I can – not necessarily out of a car window, but up none the less.

Happy Tuesday to you all, and I’ll see you here tomorrow, if you wish!

©️2024 Britta Benson. No unauthorized use permitted.