Walk this way

By crikey, it was hot yesterday.

So I took K and D's Subaru for a spin down to South Beach and locked poor recuperating Pounce! up in the sweatbox which was our home.

Comeuppance was swift as my feet hit the shimmering sand. At times like these - you know, like when somebody treads on a patch of Double Gs - I advise them to do like Steve Tyler and 'walk this way'. By this I mean walk normally and embrace pain as your friend.

But yesterday my tootsies felt like they'd been dipped into a vat of freshly blown glass. So back on flew my shoes.

Oh what relief when my torso hit the clear water. As I duck-dived to the bottom, a tepid top layer gave way to the most refreshing cool. Drifting up for air, I noticed I'd been engulfed by a large school of mullet.

Glimmering silver in the midday sun, they drifted by, unperturbed by my gallumphing intrusion into their wet, wild world. And that's where mullet should stay.

Not because they're living, glimmering things. But because they taste terrible.

(photo courtesy Hazelblackberry Inc.)