An attempt at Gary-style bodily injury story (only not gross, promise)

My feet hate me.
Perhaps they have not yet quite recovered from the jet lag or something and are finding themselves being dragged into town when they fully expected to be put up in bed, but they are really not coping particularly well at all with the change in latitude.
It all comes down to shoes of course - blame the tools. Before leaving I decided that taking two pairs of walking boots was uncessesary, I could not justify the extra weight if nothing else. Besides, I was traveling to a climate warmer than I was used to, so the heavy, clunky walking boot was really not appropriate for the conditions I would be facing. I needed something lighter, airier.
And so, I invested in something new, and not being a big shoe buyer (i.e being male) this could probably be considered a big thing. This particular big thing had - and here for reasons unclear to me, I hang my head in shame - a bloody great big logo plastered to the side. It was branded, yes, branded. It was also something without any support for my feet whatsoever, but it did look kinda cool.

Now, I walk a lot. Not just in the obvious sense, the getting up off the sofa to find the television remote control sense, nor exclusively in the "lets all go on a hike" sense, although that is certainly part of it. Not being able to drive - something I will get round to some day, I promise - I tend to walk to bus stops and on occasion, skip the bus altogether and walk the distance instead. On the whole, I have never really had any problems. My feet and I sort of see eye to eye on the subject, we just get on with it and no-one gets hurt. I pick the scenic routes with plenty of soft, comfy verges to get stuck into, I dress my feet up in nice, well-supported and waterproof footwear. It works. We get from A to B together. Hell, I've even started talking as though they work for me.
Or rather it worked, past tense. Suddenly I went all designer on them and something has gone terribly wrong in the process.
On my first day in town, in a fit of pique which should have been dismissed outright given that I had not had any sleep to speak of for something like thirty-six hours, I strapped on my logo-branded plimsoles and hot-footed it into town along tarmaced pavements. An hour or so later, my feet were hot and aching, with - and don't worry, this is not going to go into the sort of gory detail which would make Gary proud - small, painful wounds appearing where parts of the shoes had rubbed their way though the skin. I stumbled back to the hostel and after a fitful night's sleep, decided to use my walking boots for the morning's walk into town - so it was hot, I thought, but my faithful feet needed the support, dammit.
The trouble was that the walking boots I brought with me are the new ones which I have not quite finished breaking in yet, also my feet were already injured from the previous day's sortie, and the new wounds rubbed freshly against the old boot - talk about being rubbed up the wrong way. And so by the time I had walked into town and back I could barely walk another step. I was limping. Seriously, I had been in town for barely two days and already I couldn't walk.
I took the following day off and today ventured cautiously back into town to purchase a new pair of walking sandals (which will need to be worn in, I appreciate) and some natty little insoles which slip cunningly into the logo-branded monsters and give them a little bit of support. All from an unfortunately named shop named Athlete's Foot which goes to prove that just because you can have a punny title, does not mean you should. Anyway, these new purchases are all very well, but they now make the heels rub like bastards, which they didn't before.
As I said, my feet hate me.
And all because I kited them out in some designer togs. You see, fashion hurts.