Money for old rope

I also remember very fondly a summer where I attempted desperately to keep a pair of navy and white striped platform espadrilles on my feet. The memory is somewhat rose tinted because, in reality, those bloody shoes gave me hell. The number of times while endeavouring to walk at any speed, my little toes like claws scrabbling at the rope in an increasingly futile battle, I found my feet naked and my ankle sporting an elaborate sort of anklet cannot be over stated.



But there is nothing quite so reminiscent of carefree holiday cheer. Strange that, how our memory is so determined to see them in a good light.



These however remind me how much I really hate them:


Sorry to rain on your parade.