I was at Ikea, separated from my only friend by a navigation incident - I got out of the lift a floor too soon and became trapped waiting for the next one with enough room to fit my trolley the size of a pallet - when the woman next to me spoke to her husband with true irritation, nay, dismay: I've told you not to wear those jeans with those shoes. You can't see yourself from the back. I don't know how many times I have to tell you. You look dreadful.

He said nothing and moved to wait in front of the next lift along. She followed.

I forget this incident in the panic of being trapped with only flat packed furniture for support in the no-mans-land between the bright possibilities of the store and inevitable gloom of the car park. Then, on a drizzly Sunday morning a man walks past and the bottom of each leg of his jeans is caught in the back of his boots.

Which brings us neatly to orthapaedic shoes.

Last night Noonie and I joined middle-aged men standing on badly patterned carpet in the line to see the The Rolling Stones, or at least the film of them. A few minutes walk up the hill past the Slip Inn (your own vomit) the best cinema from around the world is there for the taking at the Film Festival. We're here with men in suits many of whom are carrying small backpacks. They are standing in the fluorescent glare of the IMAX sign.

There's old, old footage of Mick. Almost unspeakably pretty when he was still in proportion. He says that they have been playing music for two years now and he thinks they'll get at least another year out of it. Noonie says he seems posh, decent at the very least. In fact, they are all very polite to Hillary Clinton's mother when she comes by to meet them before the show.

They have special guests. Jack White is a long tall drink of water with pale face make-up, a waist coat and that baby face. He makes eyes at Mick while he sings and I think he is in love with him. Mick could do worse. He is after all Jack White III.

Noonie says Mick is wearing orthapaedic shoes but I think they are just black Reeboks. In any case I'm concerned for the safety of those shoes when Christina Aguilera takes her own metal stillettos close enough to writhe against him while she screeches. The Reeboks are saved from a stabbing because he's Mick and he's never been one to stay in the same spot for very long.

The footage from the eighties makes me want to wear a suede silk shirt in peppermint. I can feel the fabric.

There are American women in the front row preened and shiny moving self consciously to the rhythm of Keith's guitar. He's wearing a sleeveless t-shirt and it looks like pieces have been hacked out of the top of his skinny arm.

Mick takes it all very seriously, whereas Keith seems constantly amused. Only mildly amused, but still.

In the beginning Marty Scorsese is alarmed that his crew might set Mick on fire and when we see his feathered coat for Sympathy for the Devil we're not surprised. Word comes from Mick's people that Marty won't get what he wants. Then it's Mick on the phone for the showdown. He's saying no cameras on stage and no moving cameras.

Actually it seems the whole film is a reaction to those restrictions, a constant quest to get as close up as possible and my poor overstimulated brain craves a wide shot, longs to see the whole stage.

At the end of the phone call it's Englishness that wins out. Nice chatting to you. Bye bye. Decent Mick.

June weeks, not so cold. Remembering last winter. Shivering misery.

On the door step on a Thursday morning is a French fry. Just one.

I love the sound of you walking away.

I feel wispy. Not unlike a chip. Like it might be time to go back to curly hair. Wispy with flat shoes. Only flat shoes. Like a mission. Not even boots any more.

I crave total control now. Like the woman in Pattern Recognition. Just yes or no. Not the endless why. It doesn't work. I know it. Trust me. I'll tell you when it does.

Kate Bush. PJ Harvey. I doubt they're compromising types. I bet they know it.

David Byrne.

Carrots cut lengthways to roast for a Sunday lunch.

Why such comfort from putting on shoes after walking around only in socks? Even inside. I've wondered for such a long time about the feet of older people, wondered about their preoccupation with toenails and corns. I am beginning to understand, though, that physical comfort is a large part of happiness and feet are key.

There's a fake snake. Black, and wound around the balcony railing. For the cockatoos you understand.

I stand on the step and there's a sailing boat with no sails dipping on slate ocean. Testing dimension. Lurching. Eamonn says: just out and back again.

The night before: boys sit in the dark on the deck tinkering with fishing lines and tackle.

Aetheists hatch plans to christen their children to get them into their preferred school.