The first part of the next day was spent mournfully poking my desert boots which still looked, smelled dead. I decided to either leave them or despatch them in the same ceremonial fashion I’d respectfully employed for a pair in the late 1980s which were delivered into the sea from a cross-Channel ferry. The 2014 dezzies eventually came back to life after ventilating for a day and a bit. But even then, as it drizzled on the way back to Orlov Most Square, where I caught the airport transfer, I had to contort to keep the damn things dry and from re-erupting into a throat-catching, fearsome stench. They ended up, nonetheless, fused to my feet.
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