I'm afraid my particular style of dance, when taken to excess, often leads to blisters on one or both big toes. This must have been the case last night, fuelled by Real Ale and pork, quite alone, jumping up and down in a very personal interpretation of certain tracks, but not Bob Dylan.
By 3am I found the tent, then listened to Bob Dylan a while longer, well about 3 nano seconds...
By morning it was clear from the skin on my feet I could have jeopardised the whole alpine experience on account of Pogo-ing...
"Well it serves you right!" would have been Mothers response, "You should have more sense than that." etc etc...
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