Lady Godiva (yes, she’s from the English Midlands) is making me walk miles every day. She started power walking last year and lost 50 pounds. She is now slimmer than a sixteen year old and every bit as spunky. She strides out, and I limp behind her, knees and vocal chords squealing protest all the way. The other day, we were pounding our way along Duval Street, at the heart of Key West when she said “Tomorrow we should put our trainers on and go for a proper walk”
“This is me at full speed” I wheezed “and my Crocs are the most sporty shoes I own”
Actually my Crocs are past their best. Their worn soles are slicker than snot and so a stray leaf, a wet patch on the pavement or similar could easily result in a fall that would put an end to any perambulation for good. I must tread carefully.
Yesterday was spa day, so luckily there was a lot of lying down. After treatments involving hot stones and milk and honey, we had unguents intended to reduce lip lines, (applied by a girl from Rotherham) and then adjourned to the hotel/spa private beach which is strictly for residents only. The beach is run by Elvis, who, clad in white shorts and a white polo shirt, hefts sun loungers, sweeps up stray leaves and generally make sure that high sunbathing standards are maintained. The beach claims to be topless, but that is not the American way, and besides, Elvis wouldn’t like all those cups and strings littering his stretch of sand. I loitered in the shade and Godiva (top still firmly in place) worked her charms on Elvis. Soon, we had breached the beach and, NOT being residents, our satisfaction was all the sweeter.