The Curse of the Curse-d Trainers
This weekend, in a fit of stupidity, I went beachcombing yesterday along Chesil Beach after the latest big storm to hit the south coast.
Stupid, because the area around Chesil and Portland is perhaps the most dangerous part of the south coast when the wind is any stronger than a light breeze, and my little trip comes only a week after a local kid was swept away - presumably drowned - in the sheltered waters of Portland Harbour. This here picture of mine goes some way to illustrate the enormity of the big sea against very, very small people. It was so windy I could barely stand upright to take the photo.
There, with a gale blowing straight up my swonnicles, I made the most excellent discovery. All beachcombers dream of finding something special, a dream that tends to involve a suitcase full of used bank notes, but that was better. Much, much better. For I found, amongst the usual plastic bottles, bits of wood, rope and cuttlefish, an excellent pair of Nike trainers IN MY SIZE that had quite probably fallen off a boat somewhere. Or, were formerly attached to a dead sailor.
However, on taking my prize home, I now find myself in the position where I am loathe to wear them as:
a) walking around in dead sailor's trainers is, when you think about it and in the cold light of day, just a little bit pikey, and
b) For dead sailor's trainers read 'Curse-d Trainers'. Curse-d. Curse-d to death. And nobody wants curse-d feet.
I fear curse-d feet because of what Mrs Duck told me. In fact, our actual conversation, held at 100 decibels in a howling gale went like this:
Me: Hey! I found some trainers! Nike! In my size!
Mrs Duck: I bet they belong to some drowned sailor. You ought to call the police.
Me: Finders keepers.
Mrs Duck: They'll be curse-d, you mark my words.
Mrs Duck: Curse-d. Curse-d trainers.
I have been told, in another place, by another blogger, of the dangers of donning curse-d clothing and getting killed to death by vengeful footwear. For similar reasons, you should never buy trousers from a charity shop as it is a 100 per cent guarantee that someone died in them. Possibly from explosive diarrhoea.
And who am I to argue? Mrs Duck's got an uncle, who, as a lorry driver, was always bringing home things he'd 'found' at the side of the road. This included, on one memorable occasion, a whole three-tier wedding cake, complete with little plastic bride and groom on top.
Curse-d cake. Curse-d cake that brought on explosive diarrhoea. That'll learn 'em.
What excellent things have you found? And was it curse-d in any way?