Yesterday’s shoe fiasco has come back to haunt me. Today I wear the appropriately restrictive office clothing that my boss likes me tethered inside but was looking forward to slipping into somethin’ a whole lot more conducive to life and living later, when I head to the theatre in Scarborough. I have my Fubus, my fine khaki t-shirt, but I have no suitable footwear. Yes, folks, I have again left a pair of shoes back in York. Just as Duffs fail to look the part alongside a drab pair of pinstripe pants, a pair of cheap-as-chips work shoes fail to do it at the foot of dazzling jeans. So I will have to enjoy my leisure time wearing dreadful threads, overheating in a long-sleeved shirt that has already suffered the rigours of a sweaty eight hour day. It’s just as well there will be a vacant seat next to me (all theatre critics have to demand an extra seat that will then not be taken up and, at the late stage critics are prone to run in to venues, for reasons best known to themselves usually breathless, the spare seat can’t be resold).