You would think, given the brevity of the posts round these parts, that I have some sort of aversion to putting the old words onefootinfrontoftheother. It is not true! It is not true! I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers through! (And by "bottoms of my trousers", I mean the trouser-component encased around my gallant sit-upon, if you catch my drift, not the trouser-component known in trouser appreciation circles as the trouser cuffs, which trouser cuffs, by the by, show a remarkable impregnability to the agents of trouser-wearing-through-ness.)
No, in short, I love to put the words onefootinfrontoft'other. Macrologue Harlot, they call me down at my local. Show us your verbosititty, they leer and rollick after one too many Pimms 'n' strawberries. Is that a dictionary in your pocket or are you just pleased to ... etc. And if I had my way right now I would be writing great whopping screeds about intergalactic milkpersons, I would be fictivising the history of my bigamous great grandfather (possibly without maternal consent), I would be telling the story of The Time We Towed the Calf Out of His Mother With a Dirty Big Chain Wrapped Around the Calf's Feet At One End and the Towbar At the Other. I might even be dusting down one of my three fustified research projects. Or writing here, on this excuse for a blog.
But no. I am STILL marking. For the nineteenth day in a row. And this is what wears my trousers through.