Curs-ed boots. That's what I've got. Not cursed. Curs-ed.
The more observant amongst you, my loyal readership, may remember my recent face-to-face encounter with woe in the complete destruction of my favourite Ben Sherman boots at the hands of a hideous faecal explosion.
This tale ended reasonably happily with the purchase of a brand new pair of Size Nines from a local cut-price footwear emporium somewhere in Dorset.
OR SO I THOUGHT.
After less than a week's happy use out of my new footwear, it appears that they are not all that they seem.
"Just what IS that smell?" asked the fragrant Mrs Duck as I entered her divine presence recently.
And: "What's crawled up your arse and died?"
But - for once - it wasn't my bottom. Nor was it beef-flavoured farts dealt by my canine friend of friends Lucy Minogue.
It was my brand new hardly-worn-at-all boots.
Boots which smell like they were mined from between the very buttocks of Satan.
"You're not coming inside my house with those boots, Mr Man," she said, meaning it.
And so, they are consigned to the shed, where they may fester in peace.
There can be only one explanation for this hideous spectral phenomenon. My new boots are haunted. Haunted and curs-ed. Haunted and curs-ed by the restless spirit of my poor, dead Ben Shermans.
And there is, I fear, only one course of action to be taken, and it was spelt out to me from the Other Side via a late-night Ouija board session in a darkened room at Duck Towers.
K-I-C-KSo mote it be.
Bless you Sam.
On any other business
A quick Thursday vote-o: A regular Tale of Mirth and Woe (which may or may not contain somebody bowking rich brown vomit into a hedge) tomorrow, or STAR WARS II: ATTACK OF TEH CLOWNS?
You decide. You.